


Bowl Me Over (AKA The Bowling Fic)

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Dating, Fic, Flirting, M/M, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 70
Words: 62,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clinton is experienced, and Neal is not. (Complete.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Beth for Ameripicking the final version of this, and to dragonfly for beta on chapters 61 and 62. <3

It was a hot evening. The sky was a faint dusky blue beyond the streetlights; the background hum of traffic, New York's equivalent of cicadas and crickets. Neal let himself into the surveillance van with a sigh. He was increasingly convinced that being required to spend a Friday night in the van should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention.

He hung his jacket on the back of a chair and sat on the bench seat by the door, waiting for Diana and Jones to finish their shift so he and Peter could take over. Assuming Peter ever showed up.

Diana raised her hand in greeting without turning around. The footage on the CCTV screens in front of her looked unrelentingly dull. Neal rolled up his sleeves and wished he'd brought a stress ball or a deck of cards.

"Anything?" he asked.

Diana shook her head. "It's been quiet all afternoon."

Her phone buzzed. "Peter's running late," she said, reading the text message. "He got held up at the office. He'll be here in half an hour." She turned to Jones, who was manning the audio from the back office of the bowling alley across the road, and tapped him on the shoulder.

Jones pushed one earpiece back.

"Peter's late. Neal and I can cover if you want to take off," said Diana.

"You don't have to tell me twice. Hey, Caffrey." He handed Neal the headphones, maneuvering in the small space to swap places with him. He tossed his empty coffee cup in the trash and reached for his jacket. His phone rang. "Aaron. Yeah, I'm going to go home and change first."

Neal put on the headphones, one earpiece pushed back like Jones had worn them, and listened idly to his phone call. Jones was keeping his voice low, but the van was small and privacy wasn't really an option.

Jones laughed. "Yeah, okay. Meet you there." He hung up.

"Hot date?" said Diana, glancing up from her screen.

"Something like that." Jones grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early." He opened the door, letting in a gust of humid, relatively fresh air, and then the door closed again and he was gone.

Neal raised his eyebrows at Diana. "Does Jones often have hot dates with guys?"

"It's been known to happen," said Diana. "Why?"

"I didn't know." Neal shrugged. "Statistically, what are the odds of the White Collar unit's top two agents being gay?"

"It's not a random sample." Diana kept facing the screen, but he could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I asked to be assigned to Peter's team because I knew about Jones, and that Peter was a good boss."

"Oh." Neal leaned his head back to consider that.

"And he's not gay," added Diana.

"Peter? I know. Elizabeth—"

"Jones. He's bisexual." Diana finally turned to face him, her expression tough and challenging. "What's it to you, anyway? Is there something you want to tell us?"

"Me? Nope. I'm straight but not narrow." Neal smiled, hoping she'd relax and respond in kind. It sort of worked. She snorted and returned her gaze to the monitors.

Neal shifted in his seat and put the misaligned earpiece over his ear, so he could listen in on the fascinating exchanges involved in running a bowling alley.


	2. Chapter 2

On Monday morning, the team met up in the conference room, which was blessedly air-conditioned, to the extent where Neal had to wear his jacket. Diana and Jones were on the other side of the table, discussing their respective weekends. Neal watched them, trying to imagine Jones dating another man. Or anyone. Jones had always seemed like the consummate FBI Agent: it was a surprise to discover he had any kind of social life at all.

Neal prided himself on being able to read people; it was an important survival skill in his former line of work. And all the other gay or bi men he'd met had pinged him almost immediately. What was different about Jones? Why hadn't Neal known? He was still pondering this when Peter called the meeting to order.

"I think we've got enough with the wiretap to move on this, but I don't want to spook them. Neal, I'm sending you in undercover." Peter leaned over the table, apparently looking for something in one of the files.

"Fine by me," said Neal. "There's just one problem."

Peter looked up from the transcript he was leafing through. "What?"

Neal gave him an angelic smile. "I can't bowl."

"You're kidding me," said Diana, sounding richly amused.

"It's not exactly a core skill for an alleged forger."

"You couldn't have mentioned this sooner?" Peter looked exasperated.

Neal shrugged.

"I used to be in a league," said Jones. "You want me to go in instead, Peter?"

Peter shook his head. "No, the bowling is secondary. Piedro's a money launderer. Neal's from that world—he'll be more authentic."

"Not if he can't get past the lanes," said Diana.

Peter closed the transcript folder and straightened up. "We can fix that."

"What?" Neal sat up and dragged his attention away from Jones. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," said Jones with a smirk. He rubbed his hands together. "Let's bowl."


	3. Chapter 3

They went to the Lucky Strike on 42nd Street, a safe distance from Piedro's bowling alley, and the minute they walked in, Clinton felt ten years younger. He took off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

Elizabeth Burke turned up while they were putting on their shoes. "Peter called me." She grinned at Neal. "I had to come down and witness your initiation."

He finished tying his laces and grimaced up at her. "Public humiliation. My favorite."

"You'll be fine," said Peter, but Clinton felt a little sorry for Neal, and since Peter was distracted with his wife, and Diana was clearly planning to sit back and enjoy the show, Clinton took it upon himself to talk Neal through the basics.

"You played any baseball?"

"Poker's more my game. And I used to be pretty good at pool."

"Well," said Clinton. He handed Neal a bowling ball. "You'll be fine. Just stay relaxed, and keep your shoulders level and your swing straight."

Neal was sliding his fingers into the finger holes, but he looked up at that.

"What?"

"Nothing." Neal blinked at him for a moment, then turned to the lanes. "Here goes nothing," Clinton heard him mutter.

It was pretty good for a first try. The ball sped down the lane, veering off slightly to the right, and took out three pins.

"Not bad." Clinton gave him another ball. "Remember—keep your arm relaxed. If you raise your hand as you release the ball, it'll add lift and spin."

"Isn't it your turn?"

Clinton shook his head in disbelief. "You get two balls a turn."

"Oh right." But Neal didn't move. "How do I win?"

"Practice," said Diana. She turned a ball in her hands. "Maybe a training montage."

Clinton ignored her. "The ball has to hit at least four pins to get a strike. And it's bowling, not cannon practice—you don't have to hurl it five hundred miles an hour."

Neal had another shot. This time his foot slipped and the ball went straight into the gutter. He watched it ruefully.

"Here, we'll show you how it's done," said Diana, taking his place.

Diana got a spare while Clinton explained the scoring system to Neal. Then Clinton got a strike. Neal flubbed his next turn, but apparently he learned by imitation, because after that he got a spare, and he finished the game in third place, but with a respectable score of 115, only narrowly behind Diana. Clinton's game was hampered by knowing Neal was studying his every move, analyzing his technique. It made Clinton self-conscious, but he still won.

In the neighboring lane, Peter and Elizabeth were battling it out, apparently pretty well-matched.

"Another game," said Neal. "I think I'm getting it."

Clinton raised his eyebrows at Peter, who looked at his watch. "One more game."


	4. Chapter 4

After the second game, Elizabeth hurried off for a meeting, and the rest of the team went to lunch at a nearby diner recommended by Diana. It wasn't quite noon, so they had their pick of tables, and they ended up in a booth on the side wall. Usually on occasions like this, Neal would sit next to Peter and make little asides to him. Today, for whatever reason, Diana was sitting beside Peter, and Clinton found himself next to Neal. Right next to him.

Neal was watching him with the same intensity he had at the Lucky Strike. The waiter brought their orders and Clinton waited for Neal to get drawn into the general conversation, but Peter and Diana might as well have been at a different table.

"You've got good form," Neal told Clinton.

Clinton gave him a withering look that had no visible effect whatsoever. "What do you know about form? You never played before today."

"I have an instinct for these things," said Neal, quietly, "and my instincts tell me you know what you're doing."

Clinton realized he was leaning in to hear him over the ambient noise of the diner. He moved back, the self-consciousness from the alley catching up with him again. "Bowling lesson's over. What are you up to, Caffrey?"

Neal's eyes went wide in an exaggerated display of innocence. "It was just a compliment. No need to call for backup." He stole a French fry from Clinton's plate.

Clinton shook his head and started to listen in to Peter and Diana's exchange—gossip about the Organized Crime unit, but Neal was persistent.

"So, you were in a bowling league." He was teasing Clinton, and Clinton was suddenly aware of the slightly disheveled sweep of his hair and how very blue his eyes were.

Oh hell.

Thankfully, Diana butted in. "Yeah, Jones—a league? Did you have matching embroidered shirts and everything?"

"It was the nineties," said Clinton, relieved that the conversation had widened to include the rest of the team. "I knew a guy who worked at a bowling alley in Brooklyn."

"Elizabeth and I went bowling on our second date," said Peter, and the focus shifted off Clinton, to his relief.


	5. Chapter 5

When they walked to the car after lunch, Clinton hung back to talk to Diana. "Something's up with Caffrey."

"What do you mean?" asked Diana. She'd been sending a text, but she slid her phone back into her pocket and glanced at Peter and Neal walking ahead of them. "What something?"

Clinton made a face. "I think he was flirting with me. He's never done that before."

Diana frowned at him for a moment before her forehead cleared. "Oh... that might be my fault. I outed you last Friday, after Aaron called you in the van." She shrugged. "He asked."

Clinton blinked. "He didn't know?"

"Didn't seem to, and you've been working together how long now?"

"It never came up." Clinton wasn't closeted; he just liked to keep his personal life and his work life separate. "I thought Lauren or Peter would've said something."

"Maybe they were being discreet," said Diana, rolling her eyes. Clinton knew she preferred to be upfront with people, but she was in a committed relationship. It was a different situation. "Anyway," Diana added, "Neal said he was straight, so that doesn't explain the flirting."

He sure hadn't been acting straight at lunch. But then, who could fathom the mind of a con artist. "Maybe he's just being Neal Caffrey."

"Could be worse," said Diana philosophically. "He could be treating you like a leper."

Clinton glanced ahead. Neal was laughing up at something Peter had said, his smile bright in the sunlight. His shoulders were square, tapering down to his waist and hips, and his stride was confident and graceful. Clinton had never had a thing for straight guys, and he wasn't about to start now, but Caffrey was damned attractive. It was distracting, and if Neal had decided Clinton was fair game for flirting, it was only going to get more so. Clinton sent Diana a dark look. "Explain how that would be worse."


	6. Chapter 6

An hour later in the van, Neal mentally reviewed everything they knew about Piedro and everything he'd just learned about bowling, while he listened to Peter's instructions and put on the transmitter watch. He was going in in a few minutes and if he fucked up, it was going to get messy. He wasn't thinking about Jones at all.

In fact, now that he'd proven to his own satisfaction via a little judicious flirting that Jones really was bisexual, Neal figured the subject was done and dusted.

"Jones," said Peter, and Neal looked up, startled, but Peter wasn't talking to him.

Jones edged past Diana in the crowded van and pulled out the key to Neal's anklet. Oh, right. And then Jones gave Neal a soft, sexy smile, just a little bit shy, that was so utterly un-Jones-like that Neal promptly forgot everything he was supposed to be thinking about. He may even have gaped. "Um."

"Up," said Jones, his voice like caramel, and Neal stood up in a daze and put his foot on the chair.

It was a swivel chair and the seat shifted under his foot, and Neal was so distracted he nearly lost his balance. He had to grab Jones' shoulder to steady himself. He pulled up his pants leg like he had a dozen times before, and Jones unlocked the anklet, just like always, but this time, Neal felt the brush of warm fingers and all the hairs on his body prickled with awareness.

Jones patted his knee and stepped back, the anklet dangling from his fingers. "There you go, babe."

"Babe?" said Peter, but Neal hardly heard him. He met Jones' gaze, and the mix of heat and challenge there made his mouth go dry.

Then Jones blinked and it was gone, replaced with a raised eyebrow and a mocking gleam.

Neal shook off his stupor, and tried to look cool and collected. "Thanks, sugar."

"Okay," said Peter. "What am I missing?"

"I think it was payback," said Neal, letting his pants leg fall over his bare ankle. He put his foot on the ground, shelved his reaction to Jones, the elaborate flight plans that popped into his head whenever he was out of his anklet, and his whole damn life, and stepped into character: Nick Halden. "Major Tom to Ground Control," he said into his wrist watch. "Here goes nothing."

Diana, who was monitoring the audio, gave him a thumbs up, and Neal stepped out of the van and into a world of crime.


	7. Chapter 7

Being Nick Halden was easy. Neal had had plenty of practice in the last eight years, and Nick was only a few degrees different from Neal in the first place: a little sharper and more serious, a little more ruthless, but still reckless and primed to calculate all the angles. So the Nick Halden persona slipped into place like a second skin, and he walked into the bowling alley with his usual unbounded confidence. Inside, he stopped at the shoe rental counter.

"What size?" said the large, tough-looking guy behind the counter, putting down the Road & Track magazine he was reading. His name tag said Stefan.

"Ten and a half," said Neal. He waited until Stefan plonked the shoes on the counter. "Actually, I was hoping to talk to Piedro, on a business matter. Is he available?"

"That depends." Stefan looked him up and down, eyes lazy with contempt. "Can you bowl?"

Neal shrugged. "I'll bet you a thousand dollars I can beat you. If I win, you arrange for me to meet with Piedro."

A mean smile spread across Stefan's face. "Ja, okay. You got a deal."

He called for someone from the bar to mind the shoe counter and led Neal to the far lane. Stefan was already wearing bowling shoes. Neal took his time putting his on, remembering what he'd practiced that morning and the confident way Diana and Jones had moved on the lanes.

The bet was a calculated risk: Nick Halden rarely lost, no matter what the game—he'd played one-on-one basketball for a priceless stolen diamond once—and gambling helped him to focus, gave him some edge. Neal thought about the heat from his weird exchange with Jones and harnessed that too. By the time he selected a ball, he was loose and self-assured.

It paid off like magic: Neal's first three turns, he bowled straight strikes.

On the down side, Stefan matched him strike for strike.

"Nice," said Neal, after Stefan's third third. He smiled, making it warm and personal, and Stefan snorted, immune to Nick Halden's charms. Which made Neal realize that he'd sort of been flirting for advantage. Not with any real intent, but still—

For the first time, Neal wondered if Nick Halden was perhaps not completely straight.

It was a distracting idea, and Neal tried to clear his head as he picked up the ball for his fourth turn, but he couldn't quite get back the Zen certainty he'd had before, and he released it a little too late. It veered to the right, only taking out three pins.

Stefan grinned, and Neal took a deep breath and got back in the game, recovering enough to get a spare, but it was too late. His composure was thrown, and he ended the game nearly eighty points behind Stefan's almost perfect score.

Neal counted ten hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket and handed them to Stefan. He needed a backup plan and flirting wasn't going to cut it. Perhaps a rematch.

But Stefan pocketed the notes and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. You play well enough and, more importantly, you have money. Piedro will see you."

Apparently Neal could have bought his way in and saved himself the humiliation, but what was done was done. He'd made it past the gate-keeper. From here, he just had to lay a simple trap. Like any other mark, Piedro's greed would be his own undoing.


	8. Chapter 8

Piedro was sandy-haired and chinless. He wore beige cashmere sweats and a gold chain, and he welcomed Neal into his office as if Neal were a mark, not a business prospect. It was going to be a pleasure to take him down.

Neal swallowed his pride and made his smile vague and his handshake weak, and it took less than fifteen minutes to get Piedro to incriminate himself by boasting about his operation, and another five for Neal to be fairly certain where he kept his accounts book, at which point Neal said the code phrase, "All bets are off," and stalled until the FBI burst down the door.

Diana cuffed Stefan for obstruction, and Jones arrested Piedro. Neal pointed Peter at the safe behind the dogs-playing-poker print. "I apologize for the cliché on behalf of all criminals."

"Apology accepted," said Peter. "Good work, Neal."

Neal slid his hands into his pockets, feeling smug, and went to retrieve his shoes. The adrenaline was starting to ebb and his right shoulder ached a little from the unaccustomed exercise. And, because Fate was what it was, it was Jones who came to find him while the others bundled Piedro and Stefan outside.

Neal was sitting on one of the bench seats near the bar. He rubbed at a scuff on his shoes and looked up at Jones through his lashes. "I don't suppose you know massage."

Jones jerked his head toward the door and started walking before Neal was even standing. "What do you want from me, Caffrey?"

"Not me," said Neal, catching up. He used his best smile. "Nick Halden."

"I'm not interested."

Neal looked at him sideways. "What if it were me?"

There was a slight hesitation in Jones' stride, just for a second. "You're not my type," he said firmly.

"That wasn't a 'no'." Neal's blood quickened and he winked at Jones, drawing on all his charm.

Jones stopped dead and turned to him, exasperation plain on his face. "Yes, it was. You've had your fun, Caffrey. Now drop it."

He didn't wait for Neal's answer, just turned and left. Neal watched him walk away and thought, _That's probably good advice._ By the time he got outside, Jones was in the SUV with the suspects, pulling away from the curb.

Neal got a ride with Peter.


	9. Chapter 9

That evening, Clinton went around to Aaron's place, which was a semi-legal loft apartment in midtown, three floors above a Duane Reade. Aaron shared it with a couple—Darren and Sal—and when Clinton arrived, Aaron was helping Darren put up a set of shelves to house their extensive collective DVD collection, while Sal sat at the dining table in the corner, working on his dissertation and eating popcorn.

Clinton pulled up a barstool and twirled a basketball between his fingers, chatting with Aaron and Darren while they worked. Aaron was Clinton's type. He'd been out since he was sixteen. He was athletic, honest and politically aware without being radical. Not pretty—his nose was too big, his warm brown eyes too deep-set for prettiness—but definitely hot, with those big hands and that strong jaw. He and Clinton had a lot of fun together, in and out of bed, and while it wasn't serious, what they had, it was good.

A much safer and saner option than a straight, not-quite-reformed con artist on work release from a supermax prison.

But then, pretty much anyone was a better option than Neal, and Neal _wasn't_ an option, despite all his talk, so why was Clinton even thinking about him?

"You look serious," said Aaron, coming to stand in front of him. "What's up?" He dusted off his hands, and Clinton pushed aside any thoughts of Neal Caffrey and tossed Aaron the basketball.

"Nothing. You want to get something to eat?"

"Sure. There's something I need to tell you, away from this zoo." Aaron dropped the ball onto a couch and went to get his jacket, while Darren and Sal made wild animal noises.

Clinton laughed at them and went over to steal a handful of popcorn. "See you guys later."

He and Aaron went to the sports bar on the corner and ordered burgers, and Clinton felt comfortable and relaxed and wondered if this was it. Maybe this was the perfect relationship for him, the perfect life. Maybe he and Aaron would get a place together in a year or two when the time was right. They'd settle down like Darren and Sal, and Diana and Christie. That could be good.

Their burgers arrived, and Clinton bit into his, still thinking about settling down. Maybe they could get a cat.

"So," said Aaron, who hadn't touched his food yet. "I'm moving to Portland in August."


	10. Chapter 10

Neal opened the French doors to let some air into his stuffy apartment and sat down across the table from Mozzie. The chess set was between them, a game in progress, but Neal's mind was on other things. "Remember that vow we made in Paris—never to flinch from new sensory experiences?"

"Of course I remember," said Mozzie warily. "You tricked me into drinking absinthe. It was disgusting. Why?"

Neal sat back and swirled the wine in his glass. "I think I'm getting set in my ways."

"Maybe you've run out of new things to try," Mozzie told him.

"Old before my time," said Neal, disregarding Mozzie's interruption and warming to his theme. "Being stuck in New York is dulling my appreciation for the finer things in life. Adventure, experimentation—"

Mozzie sighed. "Who is it this time?"

"What? It's not a who." Neal frowned at him and sipped his wine without enthusiasm. Even the Lafite had lost its charms. He needed a change.

"Of course it's a who," said Mozzie, folding his arms. "You only get like this when you're competing with someone you think is more sophisticated and worldly than you are."

Neal gulped his wine accidentally and it went down the wrong way, making him cough and splutter. It took him a few minutes to regain his composure, and when he did, Mozzie was watching him owlishly.

"What was that?" said Mozzie.

Neal dredged up some semblance of dignity. "Nothing."

"Fine, flirt with disaster. Just don't drag me into it." Mozzie shook his head.

Neal sipped his wine and swallowed carefully. "How exactly did we get from broadening my horizons to disaster?"

"We factored in your complete lack of impulse control and multiplied it by historical precedent. I still have nightmares about that absinthe hangover." Mozzie turned slightly green at the thought.

"Well, you can relax," said Neal. "There aren't any psychoactive substances involved this time."

Mozzie plucked a pawn from the chessboard and palmed it, magician style. "What is involved?"

"Gay sex," said Neal.

Mozzie froze. "Uh, Neal? I'm flattered, but I really don't think of you that—"

"Not with you, Moz!"

"Oh. Good." Mozzie looked insultingly relieved. He put the pawn back in its place on the board. "Then who?"

 _Jones,_ thought Neal. But Jones had said in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested. Neal would find someone else. This was New York—there were plenty of other options.

"I don't know yet," he told Mozzie.

"Well, just make sure it's someone who won't blab all over town about your anklet," said Mozzie. "That could damage both our reputations."

Neal hadn't considered the anklet. "I'll be careful. I'll use an alias."

"Okay. Well, then—" Mozzie gestured magnanimously. "Have fun."

"Thanks, Dad," said Neal. He stood up. "It's late. I'm going to bed."

"I'll take the couch," said Mozzie, as if that weren't already a foregone conclusion.

Neal tossed him a pillow and went to bed, where he lay awake thinking about the logistics of getting laid—who, where, when—and then, distracted despite himself, contemplating that shy sexy smile Jones had teased him with in the van. If only Jones had meant it.


	11. Chapter 11

Clinton stayed over at Aaron's that night. When he woke in the morning, he lay there, comfortable and content with sunlight glowing around the edges of the curtains. He should feel worse about Aaron leaving. It should hurt, but then, in the four or five months they'd been doing this, they'd never taken any steps towards getting serious. Even now, it didn't feel like breaking up because there wasn't really anything to break. They weren't even exclusive.

It was still a shame though. It felt like the end of an era.

Aaron rolled over, blinking sleepily, and said in a noxious wave of morning breath, "You know, I think this is going to be good for you, me leaving. It'll shake things up."

"What if I don't want things shaken up?" said Clinton, bunching the pillow under his head. He ran his toes up Aaron's calf to distract him, but it didn't work.

"Just promise me you won't turn into one of those 'all work and no play' guys," Aaron said, "or I'll have to deputize Darren and Sal to drag you out to a bar."

"I'll be fine." Clinton wrinkled his nose. Darren and Sal's taste in bars was much louder and trendier than Clinton's. "Don't worry about me."

"Or they could drag you into their bed," said Aaron, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's not like they haven't talked about it."

"What? Me? I don't believe you." Clinton squinted at Aaron to make sure he was joking.

He shrugged one shoulder and grinned. "You know, you have got to stop underestimating yourself. Shall I tell them you're in?"

"No." Clinton wrestled him onto his back and pinned him to the mattress. "No, you should not."

"No," agreed Aaron, looking up at him thoughtfully. "You know, I think it's time you fell in love."

"Hey, I like my life the way it is." The last time—the only time—Clinton had been in love had been with Isabel, and it had hurt like hell. He wasn't doing that again. His brain randomly and unhelpfully supplied the memory of Neal flirting with him at lunch the day before. Clinton pushed it away. He _definitely_ wasn't doing _that_. He leaned harder on Aaron's shoulder and frowned. "Why is this all about me, anyway? What about you falling in love and settling down in Portland?"

"I'm not even thirty," said Aaron. "I'm still in that greedy 'get it while you can' stage. Whereas you—you're getting a little bit too comfortable." He knocked Clinton's arm so his hand slipped sideways and then flipped him over, and Clinton let him, enjoying the physicality of it, the casual collision of their naked bodies.

It was still early. They had plenty of time.


	12. Chapter 12

Neal spent the day assessing his options. Not that he was on a deadline, but once he had a plan in mind it was like an itch under the skin and he liked to get moving on it, start mapping out his next steps.

So—he needed a man. He wanted someone experienced, someone who wouldn't expect more than a one-night stand. Someone hot, obviously, and discreet. Jones aside, Neal didn't know any out gay or bi men, so it would have to be a hookup. He could go to a club, find someone online, or he could meet someone in the course of his day. A club or online were probably the safest options, as far as anonymity went, but Neal kept his eyes open anyway, paying extra attention to the men who crossed his path.

The barista at the tiny coffee shop near the office had potential, and he gave off interested vibes that afternoon when Neal complimented him on his tattoo, but Neal was after someone older. Not _old_ old, but mature. Someone sure of himself.

"I think your friends are waiting," said the barista, handing over Neal's iced latte.

"Thanks." Neal dropped a dollar in the tip jar and turned to see Peter, Diana and Jones standing in a group outside on the sidewalk. Diana must have been teasing Peter, because Peter was shaking his head in protest while she and Jones grinned at him. The fact that Jones looked amused rather than disapproving probably meant Neal wasn't the subject of discussion.

Neal took his time joining them. Jones looked good. Really good. He was standing half in the shade of a lamppost, and his smile was warm, the curve of his skull elegant. He stood tall, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Those forearms were enough to give a guy ideas all by themselves.

Neal kicked himself and added "not FBI" to his criteria.


	13. Chapter 13

Clinton was developing a headache. It was partly because it was hot and they'd been after Finn Dobson all afternoon, with only a brief break for coffee, but he was prepared to admit in the privacy of his own thoughts that it was also because Neal was flirting with every single guy who crossed their path. Presumably Neal was making the point that his coming on to Clinton the day before hadn't meant anything, as if Clinton needed that memo. As if he cared.

And Clinton _didn't_ care that Neal was hitting on every guy with a pulse, except that it was unprofessional and distracting. And that was _before_ they ended up in Medallion's Gym, flashing mug shots and asking bodybuilders and athletes, "Have you seen this man?"

The gym smelled of sweat and air freshener, and it was the kind of place where most of the clients were fit, well-muscled and serious about exercise, where they scowled at interruptions and piled more weights onto their barbells. And still, despite that, Neal somehow ended up at the center of a cluster of possible eye-witnesses, apparently indulging in some kind of spontaneous speed-dating exercise. Peter and Diana were checking the changing rooms, and that left Clinton to break up the social gathering, smack Caffrey upside the head and continue the manhunt, which he was about to do when his phone rang.

He didn't usually take personal calls when he was working, but he didn't particularly want to deal with the Neal Caffrey Fan Club, and the display said it was Aaron. "Hey, what's up?"

"I'm setting you up," said Aaron cheerily. "I just met this guy, he's a web-branding consultant, and he's perfect for you. What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"No," said Clinton. He looked around and lowered his voice. "Are you kidding me? You are not setting me up on a blind date. No."

"Hang on, I'll text you a picture." Aaron's voice became temporarily muffled. "See? How can you refuse?"

Clinton looked at the image that had come through. The guy was buff, blond and okay, attractive. But he looked way too serious. "No," said Clinton. "I can't. I have a thing."

"What kind of thing?" Aaron didn't sound the least bit deterred. "Cancel it. You know I'm not going to drop this."

"Yes, you are." Clinton looked across at the growing crowd around Neal. Any second now, waiters were going to show up with trays of champagne and hors-d'oeuvres. "Listen, I'm working. We'll talk about this later, at which point I will say 'no' repeatedly until you drop it."

"I just don't want you to be alone," said Aaron. "Come on, humor me. Ron's a sweetheart."

"There's nothing wrong with being alone," said Clinton stubbornly. "It'll be good for me to take a break, re-assess—"

"You don't need to re-assess. You need to fall in love," Aaron interrupted. "I'm only doing this because I'm your friend. Well, and because Ron's just come out of a four-year relationship and he—"

"I can't," said Clinton, exasperated. "I already have a date."

There was silence on the line. "Wow, that was fast," said Aaron, after a moment. "I only told you I was leaving yesterday." He sounded surprised and slightly suspicious, but not particularly upset.

"We always said we could see other people," said Clinton. "And given you were just trying to hook me up—"

"Hey, no, good for you," said Aaron.

"I would have told you better—in person, you know?—if you hadn't just tried to bully me into domestic bliss with Ron the Branding Consultant," said Clinton. "Look, I really have to go."

"No, really," said Aaron. "I'm glad. What's his name?"

"What? It's, uh—it's Neal." Clinton closed his eyes against the sitcom-disaster cliché that his life was about to become and tried to backpedal. "But it's not seri—"

"Neal," Aaron interrupted, his voice full of enthusiasm and determination. "Awesome! When can I meet him?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Maybe," the tall guy in the 'Work Hard, Play Hard' sleeveless tee told Neal. His biceps flexed as he pointed at Finn Dobson's mug shot. "I think I saw him heading for the studio. There's a kickboxing class that started ten minutes ago."

"Thank you, that's extremely helpful." Neal smiled. This guy was a definite possibility, and he seemed interested. Neal held out his hand. "I'm Neal—"

"Caffrey!" said a brusque voice, and Neal turned to see Jones shouldering his way into the group of potential informants. He looked cranky. "What are you doing?"

"Interviewing witnesses," said Neal, dropping his hand to his side. "Dobson's in a kickboxing class."

"Great." Jones scowled. "Then let's go and get him." He pulled out his radio and relayed the information to Peter and Diana.

"What's wrong?" said Neal, when he'd finished.

"Nothing." Jones took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. "Nothing. I need to talk to you, but later. Not here."

"Okay," said Neal, confused, but Jones was already gone, moving ahead to meet Peter and Diana so they could go and bust up the class.

A couple of hours later, when they'd processed Dobson and recovered the stolen loan documents from his hotel, and Neal was starting to think about leaving for the day, Jones showed up at Neal's desk and beckoned him into the relative privacy of the case file stacks.

Curious, Neal picked up his hat and followed. "Hey."

Jones was sitting on the edge of the table, staring at the ground. He glanced up briefly when Neal came to stand in front of him and then he looked away again. "Caffrey," he said gruffly.

"Jones." Neal made himself relax and kept his tone even. There was no point getting defensive until he knew what he'd done to make Jones pissed.

"I'm going to ask you a favor."

"Uh-huh." Neal let his surprise show in his voice, since Jones still wasn't looking at him.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, just say 'no'. Say 'no', and that's it, and we won't mention it again."

"Oookay," said Neal under his breath.

Jones glared at him for a moment, and then he sighed and his bad temper seemed to evaporate, leaving him awkward and strangely vulnerable. "At least, I hope we won't."

Neal slid his hands into his pockets. "I can keep a secret."

"Thanks," said Jones, not looking particularly reassured. He folded his arms. "The thing is—" He cleared his throat. "It's just, my—a friend of mine—tried to coerce me into going on a blind date and he wouldn't drop it, no matter how many times I said 'no', and in the end I said I couldn't go because I already had a date. And then he still wouldn't drop it so I told him—" He trailed off, looking somewhere past Neal's right ear.

Neal watched him, fascinated by this new side of the stoic and self-possessed agent he'd known for so long. Waiting for the rest of the story, the part that explained why Jones was telling _him_ , but nothing was forthcoming. Finally Neal said, "Told him what?"

Jones shifted his weight. "I told him my date's name was Neal. And now he wants to meet my date. And I could try to find someone to pretend to be a Neal, or I could—"

"Or you could get the real thing," said Neal, doing his best to hide the leap in his pulse. This was better than the Play-Hard guy from the gym. This was much better.

"I'd owe you," said Jones, quickly. "I'd pay. It wouldn't be a real date."

 _Can there be real sex?_ thought Neal, but it wasn't the right moment to raise that, not with Jones so twitchy and uncomfortable. Better to save it for the date, when they'd both had a few drinks. Instead, Neal said, "This friend has a lot of sway with you."

"Aaron."

Aaron was the boyfriend, the one who'd called Jones in the van last week. This could get complicated—but that was Jones' concern, not Neal's. "Right. Aaron."

"Yeah, he just got a new job and he's moving to Portland." Jones was a little more relaxed now he'd got past the favor part. "He thinks when he goes I'm going to get boring, like I can't look after myself and make my own choices, meet people on my own—"

"And you want to prove him wrong," said Neal softly.

Jones met his gaze for a fraction of a second, long enough for Neal to feel it in the pit of his stomach. Then he looked away again. "Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay what?" Jones frowned.

Neal gave him a broad smile. "Okay, I'll do it. When?"

"Tomorrow night." Jones looked stunned. "Are you sure?"

Neal shrugged, enjoying his surprise. "Who do you want me to be? Artist, yuppie, athlete, geek—what's your type?"

Jones shook his head. "Just be yourself, Caffrey."

"Neal." Neal settled his hat on his head and started to walk away, but he turned back for one last parting shot. "Oh, and for the record, Clinton? You are a long _long_ way from being boring."


	15. Chapter 15

Clinton went home tense with misgivings and kicked around his apartment with a sense of impending doom hanging over his head like a storm cloud about to break. Pretending to date Neal was a terrible idea, a stupid idea, and he should call it off now. Tell Aaron the truth. Be firm about not wanting to date Ron or anyone else. Clinton had meant it when he said there was nothing wrong with being single. And even a pretend date with Neal could wreak all kinds of havoc in his life, especially given Neal's behavior over the last couple of days and Clinton's newfound awareness of him.

Clinton didn't like being on the back foot, and he didn't want to owe Neal Caffrey.

But when he picked up the phone to call Aaron and come clean, he found himself calling Neal instead. "This is stupid," he blurted, without even saying hello.

"People have done far more stupid things to save face," said Neal, sounding calm and cheerful. "It's no big deal."

Clinton refused to be reassured. "It can't end well. I've seen the sitcoms."

"Well, I've been undercover a couple of times a week for the last few years," said Neal, "and that usually ends with us busting the bad guy and me getting a pat on the back. But hey, it's your call. I just—"

"What?" Clinton was listening to Neal's voice in his ear as much as his words and feeling soothed despite himself.

"I just think it could be fun," said Neal. "I was looking forward to it."

"Really." Clinton didn't know what to make of that. Maybe Neal was lonely, though given his good looks, surely he could have his pick of companions. "Well—"

"Tomorrow night," Neal prompted him.

"Seven-thirty," Clinton heard himself reply. He gave the name of his favorite restaurant.

"That's outside my radius."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Clinton cast around for an alternative, but the best he could come up with was the bar around the corner from Aaron's place. It wasn't fancy, but it would have to do.

"Great," said Neal. "I'll see you at work." He disconnected.

Clinton stared at his phone for a moment, trying to figure out how he'd gotten turned around. Why all of a sudden this date with Caffrey wasn't seeming like such a ridiculous idea. Was Neal taking advantage of the opportunity and making him go along with it? And if so, why? What did he want? It had to be a con.

Suspicion made Clinton feel alert, filling him with anticipation. If Neal was playing games, Clinton wanted to know what they were—and maybe the best way to find out was to pretend to go along with them. It was as good a justification as any.

Clinton pulled on his sweatpants and running shoes and bullied himself out the door, hoping that if he could burn off some of this restless energy, at least he'd get some sleep tonight. The way things were going, he was going to need his wits about him.


	16. Chapter 16

Neal spent the better part of the evening in the pool at the gym. He didn't count laps, just kept going—swim, swim, turn, swim, swim, turn—cutting through the water while he thought about Jones and the phone call and their date the following night.

Jones had reservations about the arrangement but he'd called Neal, not one of his friends, and he'd let himself be nudged into setting a time and place. Jones had taken Neal's mention of his radius in stride. Jones was worried about appearing boring. And most importantly, when he'd lied to his friend, Jones had said Neal's name.

Neal didn't believe in coincidences: that last one was a sign. They were all signs, and they were signs he could work with.

He switched to butterfly stroke, pushing himself harder and feeling his lungs expand, already anticipating the next night—flirting over dinner, kissing, peeling Jones out of his suit. That would be something to see. He wondered what Jones liked—whether they'd suck each other off or fuck. Whether Jones would take the lead, what he'd expect. Neal hadn't had any kind of sex in far too long, and new experiences were always enlivening. He had no doubt he could enjoy himself with a man, especially if the man in question was Jones. And he was equally certain he could show Jones a good time. There'd be no hard feelings; maybe a little awkwardness after, but that would pass.

What was it about Jones, anyway? He was smart, knowledgeable and good-looking, but those weren't unique qualities. Generally self-assured, tonight's phone call being a rare exception. Loyal to Peter, impatient with being confined to the van, a champion of justice. An exemplary FBI agent. Neal had taken him for granted for so long, depended on him as part of the team—first Jones and Cruz, then Jones and Diana—and Jones hadn't made any move to change that. He'd held himself aloof, even when he was joking around, as if he had at his core something deep and private, something in need of protection.

Neal knew that feeling. He rarely thought about it these days, but Kate's death had broken him; it was as if his heart were mostly scar tissue now, encased in a hard bright shell. He still had feelings, still cared for people, but he could choose who and how much, and he never let it overwhelm him. It was safer that way.

There was still plenty of pleasure to be had.

He climbed out of the pool, water streaming from his body, and went to dry off, oblivious to the other swimmers, the jocular exchanges between friends in the changing room.

The next day at work, Neal avoided Jones, giving him as little opportunity as possible to cancel their date. He felt Jones' gaze on him once or twice, assessing, perhaps even suspicious, but Neal discovered that he didn't care _why_ Jones was watching, so long as he was watching. He could and would resolve any misunderstandings over dinner.

Let Jones believe this wasn't a real date; Neal knew better.


	17. Chapter 17

Aaron called Clinton after work to find out where the date was taking place, and Clinton told him and then fielded a barrage of nosy follow-up questions while he stood in front of his closet.

"I've got to go," he said, finally, and hung up before Aaron could worm the truth out of him. Having come this far, he might as well see the deception through.

It was too hot to wear a tie and it wasn't like he had to make a good impression—it was only Neal—so he changed his shirt and shoes, and caught a cab to the bar in midtown.

He arrived a few minutes late. Neal was already sitting at the bar, his jaw clean-shaven, his burgundy shirt open at the collar. Mel the bartender was pouring him a glass of red wine, and as Clinton watched, Neal smiled at something she said and gave a reply that made her grin too. Neal looked relaxed and right at home: the perfect con artist.

Clinton let himself appreciate the picture for a moment: Neal was easy on the eye, that was for sure. If he'd been gay or bi, Clinton might well have wanted him, but Neal was straight, so that would be stupid. Clinton wasn't stupid.

Neal glanced around, and when he saw Clinton, his smile widened in welcome, as warm as if he were genuinely pleased to be there. It sparked something deep and disconcerting inside Clinton's chest. Clinton smothered the feeling and went over to join him. "Hey."

"Hey," said Neal. "You should try this—it's really good." He put his glass in Clinton's hand, and Clinton automatically took a sip. It was dusty-dry, smooth and complex. Clinton wasn't much of a wine drinker, but he nodded.

"You're right. It is good." Neal's fingers brushed his as he returned the glass, and Clinton wondered if that was deliberate. What was Neal up to? He searched his face, and Neal's smile turned wry.

"You look like you're about to commence interrogation. Shall we at least get a table first?"

"But then I can't listen in," complained Mel, winking at Clinton.

"I'll send you a transcript later," Clinton told her and ushered Neal to a table near the street. The big windows were folded back, opening the front part of the bar to the evening, and they could watch people walk past and hear the sounds of the city.

"This is nice," said Neal, raising his glass in salute and then offering it to Clinton again.

Clinton shook his head and ordered himself a glass of the same Merlot when the waiter brought their menus. He couldn't help suspecting Neal of being up to something, but Neal was doing him a favor just by being here, so he told himself this wasn't the time to grill him about his motives.

Neal was studying him. Clinton shifted, feeling self-conscious, and leaned his elbows on the table. "What?"

"Nothing." Neal dropped his gaze and leaned forward too. When he looked up again, his eyes were blue and intent, and the spark in Clinton's chest started to smolder again. "You look good," said Neal quietly.

Clinton frowned. "You know this isn't a real date. You don't have to pretend."

"Who's pretending?" Neal widened his eyes, feigning innocence, and Clinton shook his head, irrationally annoyed. Neal was teasing him, toying with him. Trying to get a rise.

Well, two could play at that game. The waiter brought Clinton's wine and he took a fortifying mouthful. "You look good too. I like your shirt."

"It's yours," said Neal, smoothly. "Claim it whenever you want."

Clinton stilled, assailed by images of Neal taking off his shirt, his shoulders, the long slope of his back, his chest under Clinton's hands—

He swallowed. Oh _hell._ "I'll keep that in mind."

Luckily, Neal was perusing the menu and didn't seem to have noticed his loss of composure. Clinton gathered his wits and reminded himself again that this wasn't a real date, no matter how good a show Neal Caffrey could put on.

They ordered and talked about work, and that at least was easy. Neal was sharp and amusing, and Clinton suspected that if medical insurance fraud held any real interest for him, they'd be well on their way to solving the case already. Then their meals came and Neal fell silent while he sampled his steak.

From his expression, it was satisfactory. He took another sip of wine, set down his glass and looked at Clinton with open curiosity. "So, there's something I've been wondering."

Clinton braced himself for more flirting. "What's that?"

"Why did you say 'Neal' when you lied to Aaron? Why not 'Steve' or 'George' or 'Chris'?" Neal tilted his head. "Or 'Jane' or 'Susan', for that matter."

Clinton shook his head. "I don't know. It was the first name that came to mind."

Neal raised his eyebrows.

Clinton sighed. He deserved this. "You flirted with me," he said. "After the bowling."

"I did." The corner of Neal's mouth turned up.

Clinton shook his head. There wasn't any more to it than that. He decided to go on the offensive. "Why did you say 'yes'?"

"You told a lie. I'm helping you mitigate the consequences."

It was Clinton's turn to raise his eyebrows. That was an evasion, not an answer.

"It's not every day an attractive man asks me out on a fake date," said Neal. "Speaking of which, where is Aaron? When do I get to meet him?"

That was more evasion with additional misdirection, but the misdirection worked. Clinton had almost forgotten Aaron would be joining them. He realized he didn't want an audience; he wanted Neal to himself, to get to the bottom of this mystery. But Aaron was the reason they were here at all, and the wheels were already in motion. "He'll 'casually' drop by at some point," said Clinton, indicating the air quotes with his tone. "Don't worry about it."

"Spot inspections. He takes this seriously." Neal ate a mouthful of salad. "What's our story?"

"What story?"

"Who I am. How we met." A hint of vulnerability showed through Neal's confident façade. "I'm guessing you don't want to tell the truth."

"It won't come up," said Clinton, distracted by the glimpse of emotions beneath Neal's surface. He hid so much, it was hard to get a handle on him.

Though right now, the handle was pure, blatant skepticism. "Aaron won't say, 'So, how did you two meet?'" said Neal.

"No, it's—" Clinton put his hand on his wineglass, but he didn't drink, all of his attention focused on Neal. "Tell me why you really said 'yes'. What's with all the flirting?"

Neal looked down at his plate for a moment, at the half-eaten steak and salad. He put down his cutlery and raised his chin, and as if they were in a movie, the song on the bar's sound system changed from major to minor key.

Clinton could tell he was about to get a real answer. "Neal, what's going on?"


	18. Chapter 18

Neal was off his game. He'd intended to keep the conversation casual until they'd had several glasses of wine, draw Jones in and only then reveal his dishonorable intentions, but every time he looked across the table at Jones in his plain white shirt with his dark steady gaze, Neal's brain seemed to stutter.

Perhaps the wine was a bad idea after all. Or perhaps, when trying to seduce a no-nonsense, plain-speaking FBI agent, the best weapon was plain speaking.

"Neal, what's going on?" said Jones, and Neal put on his best disarming grin and told him.

"I've never thought about having sex with another guy until recently, and I want to try it out," he said, lightly. "Expand my horizons."

Jones stared. "But you're straight."

"As far as I know," said Neal. He shrugged. "I'm just talking one time, no big deal. Listen, I know you don't approve of me, but maybe we could—"

"I don't disapprove of you, Caffrey," said Jones, interrupting for possibly the first time since Neal had known him. "I just don't trust you."

"Oh." Neal inclined his head, still holding Jones' gaze. "But you did say you owe me."

Apparently that was a miscalculation. Jones shook his head. "I don't owe you sex. No one owes anyone sex."

"No, I know." Neal held up a hand to placate him. "It was a stupid idea. I'll find someone else." He picked up his knife and fork and cut into his rapidly cooling steak with resolute good humor, tucking his disappointment away to deal with later.

He could feel Jones watching him. In his peripheral vision, Jones' wineglass was raised and lowered.

After several eons, Jones spoke. "One time," he said.

Neal looked up, still chewing, and swallowed a mouthful of food he could barely taste. "That's the plan."

Jones looked perplexed. "So—why?"

"To see what it's like." Neal ate a mouthful of salad.

"But you're not expecting to enjoy it."

Neal lowered his hands to the table and, because he honestly couldn't help himself, looked at Jones through his eyelashes. "That depends who the other party is."

"No," said Jones flatly. "You're not planning to enjoy it, or you wouldn't have limited it to just one time. So either you're lying to yourself about what you want and who you are, or you're treating my world like Disneyland—fun to visit, but you wouldn't want to actually live there."

Neal's gut tightened, but he didn't move. "Well, sure," he said. "If you want to cast it in the worst possible light."

"This is why I don't get involved with straight guys." Jones shook his head and resumed eating.

Neal clamped down on an unaccustomed spurt of anger. He was doing Jones a favor by being here at all. He didn't need grief for his sophisticated, adventurous, impeccably logical plan. A personal rejection was one thing, but who had died and made Jones the gate-keeper for gay sex? "You're bi," said Neal. "How is my plan any different from what you do?"

"What I do?" Jones' jaw tightened. "I have _relationships_ with _people_. And I'm not your damned theme park, Caffrey."

"Right." Neal put down his wineglass and dropped his napkin on the remains of his meal. "Right, so I guess you've rethought your position on whether you disapprove of me," he said levelly. "Great. Have fun with that." He stood up, placed his chair back at the table with furious precision and strode out into the evening, his brain fuzzed with static.

Even as he stepped onto the sidewalk, he knew he was making a fool of himself. This wasn't who he was: he didn't get riled, he rarely took offence and when he did, his revenge was subtle and sweet. His path to success—practically his goal in life—was to smooth over difficulties, side-step disagreements and win, even if winning meant bumping elbows with assholes and smiling at bigots. But knowing that he was acting against his own interests didn't slow him down this time, nor did it unclench his balled fists.

He walked up one street, down the next, barely conscious of the world around him, driven by indignation that grew less righteous with each step. What if Jones were right?

But that was ridiculous. There were plenty of people who went out each night with the intention of getting laid, no strings, no expectations. That was a normal, accepted part of civilized society. Neal wasn't betraying anyone, he wasn't cheating. There was nothing wrong with his plan, it was—

His ankle beeped, derailing his train of thought, and he looked down, then up and around. He halted abruptly. He'd just crossed the boundary of his radius.

He retreated a dozen yards before the Marshals could call Peter and ran his hand through his hair. In nearly two years, that was only the second time he'd breached his parole conditions unintentionally. The other time was when Keller had baited him about Kate, before the Franklin wine fiasco.

So why now? Why was Jones getting to him like this? Neal blew out a breath in disgust and went to find another bar. He needed a drink or three.


	19. Chapter 19

By the time Aaron arrived at the bar, ten minutes after Neal stormed out, Clinton was twice as mad at himself as he was at Neal. He'd come down on the guy like an uptight jerk. What was it to him if Neal wanted to experiment? Clinton might prefer more meaningful encounters, but there were plenty of guys who'd be thrilled to be used and cast aside by someone who looked like Neal Caffrey. There were probably a dozen in this bar alone.

Neal wasn't threatening to break any laws or even lie to anyone: he'd put his cards face up on the table, and Clinton had ripped into him for it.

He should apologize. Just—not yet.

Because under the self-reproach, Clinton was seething at Neal's assumptions about bisexuals in general and Clinton in particular. _How is my plan any different from what you do?_ he'd said, as if he thought he knew how Clinton operated: shallow and sex-obsessed. Screw that.

And beneath the seething, there was a third layer of turmoil, the one Clinton was trying not to think about, where he was pissed because Neal had flirted with him and propositioned him, but didn't actually want him. Not in the specific, personal way Clinton now recognized he wanted Neal. _Stupid._

He was scowling into space when Aaron slid into Neal's chair and pushed aside his abandoned napkin-covered plate. "Where is he?"

"You just missed him."

Aaron looked at his watch. "It's still early."

"We had a fight," said Clinton, grimly. "He left."

Aaron stopped signaling to Mel at the bar and focused on Clinton. "A fight? You?"

Clinton sighed and picked up his wineglass but didn't drink from it. "This whole thing was a mistake."

"Maybe not. It might be a good sign." Aaron propped his head on his hands and studied him. "What did you fight about?"

Irritation caught in Clinton's throat, but he swallowed it along with his grievances. He couldn't confide in Aaron, because that would mean admitting that Neal was straight and the date had been just for show. He went on the offensive. "A good sign how? You've been watching too many daytime soaps if you think you can rate relationships based on broken crockery and yelled insults."

"You yelled at him?"

"No. Sort of." Clinton rubbed his eyes. "I was an ass."

"This is a whole new side of you," said Aaron, fascinated. "When did you last fight with anyone?"

Clinton sighed. "Aaron. Drop it."

Aaron pursed his lips for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine. Okay. Dropping it." He stole the parsley garnish from Clinton's plate and chewed it thoughtfully. "Cheer up—it's not like you ever have to see him again, right?"

"Right," echoed Clinton. He closed his eyes and swore silently and at length. Tomorrow was going to be hell. This was why dating coworkers was a bad idea. This was why _Neal_ was a bad idea.

Aaron kicked him under the table. "Want to come back to my place?"

Clinton shook his head. It felt hypocritical to go back to Aaron's after busting Neal's balls for wanting to get laid, even if the situations were completely different. Anyway, he needed to be alone. He hunched forward and narrowed his gaze. "What's with the sudden attack of match-making? You know there are far more interesting things you could be doing with your time than obsessing over my love life—like, oh, I don't know, packing up all your worldly possessions so you can move to the West Coast."

"And again I have to say it," said Aaron, cheerily. "You underestimate yourself. Better than _Baywatch_."

Clinton groaned and motioned for the check.


	20. Chapter 20

The bar was too loud and too hot, and the drinks were probably over-priced. Neal would have walked right out again except that he needed alcohol and at least the dark sweaty crowd provided anonymity. He was too wound up to go home yet.

He threw back a couple of martinis and was about to order a third when a beautiful dark-haired woman came up to him. She was wearing a shimmery halter-top that showed off the spider tattoo on her shoulder, and she shouted over the music, "Is this seat taken?"

Which was a line that would have worked better if Neal had been sitting down, but it made its point.

Neal didn't even stop to consider. "Sorry, I'm lousy company tonight."

He turned away, and in the throbbing near-dark of the dance floor he caught a glimpse of dark skin and close-cropped hair, but it wasn't Jones, and the disappointment that came with that knowledge was a kick in the teeth.

Three martinis later, he escaped, intending to go home and paint something sweeping and violent, but when the cab driver asked, "Where to?" he gave Jones' address, not June's. It was time to break the habit of a life-time and bare his soul.

Jones took long enough to answer the door that Neal was wondering if he was even home, but Neal knocked again, refusing to admit defeat or reconsider the wisdom of turning up drunk on his ex-non-date's doorstep. And then there was the rattle of locks and Jones, barefoot and impatient-looking, and okay, it was well past ten now, but he could at least pretend to be gracious, because just the sight of him was turning Neal's world upside-down, destroying any last shred of possibility of acting with restraint. All the fury Neal had been nursing since he'd walked out on dinner spilled from him now in a low, angry torrent. "You want to know the real reason why? It's you. Diana told me you're bi, and then I _noticed_ you, and now I can't _stop_ noticing you."

Jones tried to interrupt him, but Neal's fingernails were biting into his palms and he couldn't hear anything over the thunder of his own heartbeat. "And I thought if we did it, I could forget about it." He took a deep breath and a half-step back. "I'm usually better at this. I take control, and I get what I want. But message received: that's not an option this time, and it's probably a bad idea anyway, so just forget it. Forget all of it."

He took another step back, meaning to get the hell out of there before humiliation could sink in—God, he was going to regret this in the morning, and probably for weeks and months to come—but Jones followed after him and grabbed his arm. And before Neal could react or say anything more, Jones hauled him close and kissed him.

It was a kiss hot with anger and frustration, and Neal swayed in the intensity of it, the ache in his gut sharpening into need. Jones yanked him back towards the doorway and shoved him against the open front door, leaning in hard and kissing him harder. His hands were on Neal's face, and Neal closed his eyes and hung on, lost in the hurricane of it, not even trying to save himself.

He shifted, tugging Jones closer, turned on and fully prepared to give it up here, practically on the street. He didn't _care_ , but Jones was pulling back, blurry-eyed and breathing hard. "Damn."

Neal caught his wrist and reeled him in again, and this time it wasn't angry at all—just desperate and so sweet Neal thought he might cry. Jones stroked his tongue against Neal's and kissed his lips, and then pressed his face to the side of Neal's head.

Neal took a ragged breath. "Telling the truth," he murmured. "It's not for the faint of heart."

Jones' grip tightened, and he cupped the back of Neal's head, holding him just for a moment. Then he let go and moved away, and Neal felt flushed and helpless, as if his body had unraveled into a quivering mass of nerve endings and he needed Jones' touch to put him back together.

But apparently that wasn't going to happen, even now. "Go home, Caffrey," said Jones, his voice rough and tired. "I can't do this." He pressed his lips together. His eyes were troubled. "I'm sorry."

And with that, he went back inside, leaving Neal to shut the door—shut himself out of Jones' house and his life—and walk away.


	21. Chapter 21

Clinton was standing in his living room, tense and turned on, when the door banged shut behind him. It wasn't loud enough to be a slam, but it was close, and there were no approaching footsteps on the hardwood floor, so Neal must have followed instructions for once in his life. He'd gone.

Clinton's life had deteriorated from a sitcom to a soap.

His blood was thrumming with emotions and arousal, but it was bitterness that had him frozen in place: that Neal's truth-telling hadn't changed anything, or if it had, it had made it worse. Neal wasn't playing the tourist; he was trying to inoculate himself against Clinton. He thought the two of them fucking would cure him of any inconvenient attraction. It was insulting and infuriating, and Clinton didn't know what had possessed him, upon hearing that, to kiss Neal.

To kiss him? He'd practically ravished him in public. And he could still feel Neal's mouth on his, the clutch of his hands and the hard shameless heat of his body.

For one brief second, Clinton let himself contemplate going through with it: suspending pride and self-preservation and sleeping with Neal, just once. It would be intense. If that kiss was anything to go by, it would leave him ragged and raw.

And then Neal would tip his hat and continue on his merry way.

Clinton shook off the thought and went to the bathroom, where he jerked off, refusing to think about anything at all. It left him dull and unsatisfied, and he was tempted to drown his sorrows in drink, but it was a school night. He had to be on form tomorrow, with his wits about him and all his defenses in place.

But he was in no mood to try and sleep yet. He prowled his apartment. Picked up his brother's baseball bat, which had been propped in the corner of the bedroom as long as Clinton could remember, and swung it a few times, knocking over—but not breaking—a lamp. He righted the lamp and dropped the bat on the couch. Pried a microwave pizza out of the ice at the bottom of his freezer, started to heat it and then stopped it before it was done and threw it in the trash. Picked up the phone.

It was nearly midnight. This was a really bad idea. He was going to do it anyway.

Phone in hand, he went to the bookcase, where he sorted through a pile of business cards, postcards and scraps of paper. When he found what he was looking for, a phone number in Jersey, he dialed.

"Jimmy," said the sleepy voice at the other end. "What time is it?"

"No, it's Clinton." He closed his eyes. She sounded achingly familiar, even after all this time. "How are you, Isabel?"

"CJ?" The click of a light switch and then her voice was clearer, more awake. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Clinton sat down and then stood up again long enough to move the baseball bat off the couch seat. "I was thinking about you and I wondered how you were doing."

"Are you drunk dialing me?" Isabel sounded incredulous. "I haven't heard from you in years, it's nearly midnight, and you decide to call up to make small talk? You couldn't send an email? I have work tomorrow."

"I'm not drunk," said Clinton. "Much. I'm—evaluating my life choices. How are you? How's Jimmy?"

"Jimmy's in Australia. I have two graduate students with theses overdue, and neither of them can tell a macron from an umlaut, and I'm giving a presentation at a conference in Maine in less than a week on a paper I haven't finished writing yet. And my ex-fiancé has just called me out of the blue in the middle of the night. I'm fine. I'm great."

Clinton poked the edge of the coffee table with his toes. "Are you happy?"

"I'm as happy as I need to be." Isabel sighed. "What's going on? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Nothing life-threatening," said Clinton. "Just philosophy."

"You and your philosophy," said Isabel. They were quiet for a while, Clinton needing to hear what she'd say if he waited her out. After a minute or so, she cleared her throat. "You know, I think about you sometimes."

Clinton pressed the phone to his ear. "What do you think?"

"Sometimes I wonder how you are, what your life is like, if you've met someone. I'm sorry that you and Jimmy grew apart—you guys were such good friends and I came between you. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay," said Clinton. "It happens."

"Yeah, but you know?" Isabel was quiet again. "Sometimes—when I get something really right, or I stand up to someone who's being an asshole, I think you would've been proud of me. You taught me that, you know—not to let people get away with their bullshit."

Clinton swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Happy to help."

"It was hard to measure up to you, Clinton Jones, but sometimes I manage." He could hear the smile in her voice now.

He waited for the rush of regret that usually accompanied thoughts of her, but there was nothing. It seemed that actually talking to her in person was laying her ghost to rest. "You're fine. You didn't have to measure up to anyone but yourself."

"Maybe," said Isabel quietly. "It didn't always feel that way. You made me very aware of my weaknesses."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know, I know. It was a long time ago. We were just kids." She yawned. "God. Sorry. So, did you find your perfect someone?"

Clinton leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. "I stopped looking," he said, telling the dark and Isabel what he'd never admitted to himself.

"Well, perfection is pretty hard to come by." She was smiling again. "Maybe you'll have to settle for well-intentioned."

"Maybe I will." He thought of Neal, whose intentions were like a pinball machine. _Don't think about Neal._ "Does Jimmy still take you dancing?"

"Yeah." Isabel's voice was warm. "When he's around, we have a good time. I don't have any regrets, CJ. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"I guess it is." Clinton tried to imagine what his life would be like, if he and Isabel had stayed together, but the pictures wouldn't form. Their paths had diverged too long ago. They weren't those kids anymore.

"Go and drink a glass of water and go to sleep," she said in his ear. "And CJ, send me an email sometime. Let's catch up when I'm actually awake, okay? When Jimmy gets back, we can all get together."

"I'd like that," said Clinton, sincerely. "Okay. Sleep well, Isabel." He disconnected and did as she said, heavy-eyed at last and feeling weirdly peaceful despite everything.


	22. Chapter 22

Neal left Jones' place determined to get laid. He'd go to a club and find someone—girl or guy, it didn't matter—and have wild messy sex to get this clawing hunger out of his system. But after walking a couple of blocks the impetus began to fade, and he hailed a cab and went to an all-night Frames instead, where he tried to hustle bowling and lost four hundred dollars over three games, the second two, double or nothing. He would have kept playing and probably lost more, but his opponent, a laconic older guy in a polyester cowboy shirt, took his money and said, "Go home, son. Sleep it off," and Neal suddenly felt tired and let down.

He went home and slept restlessly, waking hung over and sore-shouldered to another day of high temperatures and enervating humidity, glad that Mozzie was absent and he had the place to himself. He'd embarrassed himself several times over the night before. He'd lost his temper, he'd gotten drunk and he'd kissed Jones—though 'kiss' seemed too small and chaste a word for what had happened between them, and in actual fact, Jones had started it. Started it, ended it and sent him away.

For such an abortive exchange, it had been life-changing, forcing Neal to face the irrefutable fact that he wasn't nearly as straight as he'd always believed: he wanted a man. A specific man. Agent Clinton Jones. He maybe even had feelings for him, and wasn't that a turn-up for the books. If he'd had a choice, Neal would have picked someone more easy-going—it was obvious Jones disapproved of him, whatever he said about it—but it was a done deal. Neal wanted Jones to like him, to admire him and to want him back.

If that kiss was anything to go by, he had some traction on the last objective, but after last night, the first and second were going to be a challenge.

Which meant they needed to spend some time together, somewhere Jones would let down his guard. They needed to have some fun. And that meant Neal needed a plan. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of coffee.

The office was quiet when he arrived at eight-thirty, Diana and Jones nowhere to be seen. Neal went and lounged in Peter's doorway. "Where is everyone?"

Peter glanced up from his computer monitor. "Surveillance van. We got a lead on Wiseman."

"Oh, right." Neal stuck his hands in his pockets.

Peter sighed and pushed back from his keyboard. "What's up?"

"What are the restrictions around intra-office dating?"

"Dating?" Peter's gaze sharpened. "Dating who?"

Neal pulled a face. "Can't it be a hypothetical question?"

Going by Peter's avidly curious expression, the answer was 'no'. He steepled his hands and tapped his index fingers together. "The only female agent you come into contact with is Diana."

"This is true," said Neal, trying to keep his expression neutral.

More finger tapping, and then Peter's eyes widened and he sat up, glancing past Neal as if to make sure no one else was listening. "Listen, Neal, I'm flattered, but—"

"Stop!" interrupted Neal, appalled. "Please stop. It's not you."

Peter's cheeks were flushed. He raised his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced.

"Really, Peter," Neal insisted. "I don't think about you like that. God!" It was true. He'd maybe briefly toyed with the idea once or twice when they'd started working together, but never seriously. Peter was in love with Elizabeth. Their marriage was sacrosanct. Neal knew that on a gut level, and his feelings for both of them had always taken it into account. "Just—hypothetically. Me dating an agent. What's the deal?"

Peter still looked suspicious, but his blush was fading. He shrugged. "If there's no chain of command issues and you don't work together closely, then I don't have a problem, so long as you declare it, keep everything open and aboveboard."

Neal considered. "Declare it to whom?"

"To me," said Peter. "I'm your supervisor. Who is it?"

"I'll tell you if anything happens."

Peter looked surprised. "You think you might get shot down?"

"It's not beyond the realm of possibility," said Neal, and decided it was time to change the subject. He pushed off from the doorframe and winced at the slight twinge in his deltoid.

Peter was obliging enough to notice. "What did you do to your shoulder?"

"I was trying to perfect my bowling technique. It still needs some work." Neal sent Peter a smile carefully laced with casual enthusiasm. "Hey, maybe we should have another team outing. It's a good bonding opportunity."

"You want to go bowling." Peter frowned. "Neal, what are you up to?"

"I need to salvage my pride. I lost four hundred dollars last night." Neal grinned at Peter. "Aren't you supposed to encourage me to engage in wholesome, law-abiding activities?"

Peter narrowed his eyes, but he shrugged too. "Sure, why not. We can start a league."

"Great." That was a bit more commitment than Neal had planned, but he wasn't going to question his luck. He excused himself and retreated to his desk before Peter could put two and two together.

A bowling league. Jones wouldn't suspect anything if Peter were organizing it, and he was bound to sign up. Even from those two training games on Monday morning, it was obvious how much he enjoyed the sport. Neal just had to lie low now and hope the pieces would fall into place.


	23. Chapter 23

Nothing was happening. There was no suspicious movement outside the warehouse, barely anyone in sight. Clinton sighed and stretched out his neck. "Some lead," he said to Diana.

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the screen. "You never know when something's going to pay off."

The van was as stuffy as ever, and that was _with_ functioning air conditioning, and Clinton was already tired from being up too late. Tired meant distracted. He smothered a yawn and leaned back in his seat. "You ever get involved with a straight woman?"

Diana put on an attitude. "Honey, if she's with me, she isn't straight, no matter what label she's wearing."

"You know what I mean." Clinton kicked gently at the roller on her chair.

Diana swatted his foot away, still not looking at him. "One time."

"And?"

"Her name is Christie," said Diana, smugly. "Conversion complete."

Huh. Clinton swiped a pair of broken headphones from the equipment on the counter and started picking at the loose connection. "I kissed Caffrey last night."

" _Neal_ Caffrey?" Diana finally turned to face him. Her eyes were round, bright with surprise. "Did he freak out?"

"No, I did." Clinton focused on the headphones in his hand. "It was a mistake. Heat of the moment."

"I guess I can understand the appeal on a superficial level," said Diana, "but—"

"But?"

"But aside from the fact that he's straight, you do know he's a con artist, right?"

" _Was_ a con artist."

"Oh, right. And now he's a choir boy." Diana studied Clinton, one eyebrow raised. "Are you going to do it again?"

"I doubt it." Clinton thought about Neal, about kissing him. "Maybe." Diana snickered. "Shut up." He balled up a random piece of paper and threw it at her.

She batted it aside and turned back to the screen. After a moment, she said, "Are you going to tell the boss?"

Clinton wrinkled his nose. "Full disclosure."

"'Keep everything open and aboveboard,'" Diana quoted. "You know Peter."

Clinton sighed again. It had been so long since he'd considered getting involved with someone at the Bureau, he'd forgotten that rule. Or, more accurately, he'd been semi-subconsciously ignoring it, telling himself that Neal wasn't an official FBI employee and the date hadn't been a real date. But given how the evening had turned out, Peter would want to know. "I'll tell him when we get back to the office."

"Awesome," said Diana. "Can I be there?"


	24. Chapter 24

When Neal got back from a late lunch, Jones was in Peter's office with the door shut. He might have been reporting the results of their surveillance, but that didn't usually call for privacy.

Neal sat at his desk and watched them, wondering what was going on and testing his reaction to seeing Jones after last night. Even with the badly cut suit, it gave Neal a buzz of anticipation, sharpened by uncertainty about where they stood with each other and what Jones might be thinking and feeling.

Neal would find out soon enough. In the meantime, he hoped Peter would remember to recruit Jones for the bowling league.

He tore his gaze away and bent his head to continue his pre-lunch task, idly skimming through medical insurance accounts for discrepancies that might indicate embezzlement. To start with, he glanced up every couple of minutes, twitchy with distraction, but then he got caught up tracing a series of transfers over half a dozen general operating accounts, so it was a surprise when Jones appeared at his desk. Neal hid his reaction and leaned back in his chair.

Jones had his hands in his pockets, and he seemed pretty calm and self-possessed, all things considered. "Hey."

"Hi," said Neal, tightening his grip on his pen and trying to match Jones' tone. "How's it going?"

Jones perched on the edge of his desk, just out of easy reach. He looked around casually, and Neal copied him. There was no one in earshot, but Jones leaned forward slightly anyway. "You want to date an FBI agent."

So much for the element of surprise. Neal put down his pen. "Last night was such a success, I thought we should do it again."

Jones grinned, his eyes warm.

He wasn't mad. Neal let out a slow breath and relaxed his guard, smiling back. "Peter told you."

Jones nodded.

"I should have guessed he'd rat me out," said Neal. "FBI agents are even worse gossips than criminals. What else did he say?"

Jones looked up to Peter's office for a moment: Peter was sitting at his desk, openly watching them. "He said, 'What part of _so long as you don't work closely together_ did Caffrey not understand?'"

"Is that a problem?" Jones' body language said it wasn't, but Neal wanted to be sure, not because it made a difference as far as he was concerned, but because it would matter to Jones.

Jones tilted his head and gave Neal a teasing look. "Depends on whether I say 'yes' when you ask me out."

"Do you think you might?" Neal sat forward, swiveling his chair slightly to angle toward Jones, wanting to touch him. God, it had been an age since he'd been drawn to someone this insistently. It was as if their kiss had woken Neal's libido, dormant since Kate's death or even longer, and now it was back in full force.

Jones' expression said he felt it too, but his words didn't match. "I don't know yet," he said slowly. He picked a paperclip off the magnetic cube on Neal's desk and began to straighten it without looking. "Did you really suggest Peter start a bowling league?"

"Not exactly." Neal was trying to keep his gaze on Jones' face, but his eyes kept drifting down—neck, tie, chest. Hands. He swallowed and looked up again, knowing his reactions were showing, probably plain enough that Peter could see from the other side of the office. "I just said bowling. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"So maybe we should start with bowling," said Jones. "See how it goes from there." His eyes were dark, but he was holding something back.

But this was progress and Neal didn't want to ruin it. Still, he couldn't help pushing a little. "Just bowling?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," echoed Neal. What he really wanted to do was drag Jones somewhere private and lick him all over, but it was almost enough to know they both wanted it. Anticipation was good. He could enjoy that, at least for a while. "Yeah, okay."

Jones' mouth turned up at the corner. He dropped the paperclip, now bent into a hook, onto the accounts on Neal's desk and stood up. "See you later."

"You going somewhere?"

"Back to the van," said Jones, pulling a face. He walked backwards for a few steps, and then turned on his heel and went over to Diana, who was on the phone and checking something on her computer.

She looked up when Jones approached, glanced briefly past him at Neal, and then asked Jones something. Jones shrugged as he replied. Diana hung up the phone, stood up and slung her jacket over her shoulder. Neal watched them leave, the two of them walking in step, and then picked up the ex-paperclip hook and contemplated it for a moment. It might have been a question mark.

He stuck it to his magnetic cube and returned to the accounts with renewed dedication: if he could find something, anything, on Wiseman, maybe they could catch him sooner and Jones could get out of the van and back in the office where he belonged.


	25. Chapter 25

Clinton had spent the last five or six years having casual uncomplicated relationships with pleasant undemanding people and, when it came down to it, not feeling a great deal of anything. Now he seemed to be making up for all that time in the space of twenty-four hours. Today was turning into as much of a rollercoaster as the night before.

First off, he'd told Diana about kissing Neal, and she'd pointed out that Neal was a) not the most trustworthy person on the planet and b) straight. Then Clinton had taken a deep breath and confessed his misdemeanor to Peter, expecting that to be the end of it, because Diana was undeniably right on both counts: Neal wasn't interested, and if he was, the risks outweighed the benefits, a hundred to one.

Except that Peter, upon hearing Clinton's admission, had said, "Ah," and filled Clinton in on Neal's inquiry about the fraternization rules. Neal was thinking about dating—and it was pretty obvious, he was thinking about dating Clinton.

Either Neal was prepared to take his one-time seduction plan to extreme lengths or he'd decided he wanted more than that. And the thought of more than that took Clinton's breath away. Distracted by the idea, Clinton had committed himself to Friday night bowling for the foreseeable future and managed to escape from Peter's office before Peter could get his narrow-eyed something's-up expression.

Clinton had walked down the stairs from the mezzanine, reassessing the risks and benefits of getting involved with Neal. He decided they were about equal, except that he couldn't actually do anything so long as they both worked in the White Collar unit. Peter was firm on that point, and it was fair enough.

So Clinton had gone over to Neal's desk intending to give him the "I'm flattered, but we can't" brush-off, only to find himself face to face with—well, with _Neal_. Flirting, radiating sexual desire and being open and upfront about all of it. It was exciting and utterly irresistible, and Clinton had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

Neal was still a bad risk, but talking to him, Clinton hadn't given a rat's ass. Neal wanted him. Neal was even prepared to wait, to see if their attraction would outlast the week, before they did anything official. Clinton didn't know what the chances were of it lasting—maybe the whole thing was a flash in the pan; here today, gone tomorrow—but if it was real, his risk-benefit analyses weren't going to save him. He didn't think he could say no to Neal for long, whatever the cost. He didn't _want_ to say no.

He was screwed.

The smart thing would be to get someone to talk him out of this mess before he did anything rash, but although Diana asked how Peter had taken the news of Clinton's indiscretion, she was distracted most of the afternoon by the information that Christie's parents were making a surprise visit to stay with them that weekend.

When Cameron and Pritchard, the next surveillance detail, showed up to relieve them at six, Clinton went home, showered and changed, and then headed over to Aaron's. If he told Aaron the truth about Neal—that he was a felon on parole, that he worked with Clinton, that last night hadn't been a real date—then maybe Aaron would be the voice of reason.

But Clinton didn't get a chance to find out. After a game of pick-up with some of Darren's friends, Clinton and Aaron went back to Aaron's and collapsed in front of the TV with takeout, and Aaron started talking up Ron the Branding Consultant again. "He's a really nice guy."

"I'm not interested," said Clinton.

"He has a dog, Estelle. I think she's a Labrador cross. He showed me a picture."

"Would you let it go?" Clinton stabbed a wonton with his fork. "I—"

"Look, you can't give up after one failed date," said Aaron. "Get back on the horse."

"I'm not giving up," said Clinton, thinking of Neal. "I'm trying to do the right thing. The sensible thing. It would be a disaster."

Aaron frowned in confusion. "You haven't even met him. It's pretty early to be declaring him a national emergency."

Clinton sat back on the couch and stared unseeingly at the cops on TV. "I didn't mean Ron. Forget about Ron."

"So who?" Aaron's frown cleared. "Wait, are you seeing Neal again?"

And that was the opening, the chance for Clinton to tell Aaron the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. But he couldn't. It wasn't fair to diss Neal behind his back. It felt disloyal. "We're going bowling tomorrow," said Clinton, instead, if only to stop the Ron Is Perfect sales pitch. "And no, you can't come."

"I'm leaving in two weeks, and I have to meet him sometime," said Aaron. "I have high hopes for this guy."

"Misplaced," said Clinton. He remembered Neal's expression that afternoon, the heat in his eyes. "I'm doomed."

"You'll be fine." Aaron picked up the TV remote and switched to ESPN. "Are you staying over?"

Clinton shook his head, his eyes on the screen. "Early shift tomorrow. I should get going."

Which was true and conveniently side-stepped any complicated discussion of attraction and commitment and monogamy. Clinton didn't owe Neal anything, but on the Golden Rule principle of doing unto others, Clinton knew he'd be hurt if Neal slept with someone else right now—especially if it were another man—so it seemed only fair to abstain, at least until they'd come to some kind of understanding. Which would mean talking about it. Which meant there was going to be an "it" about which to talk.

 _Doomed,_ thought Clinton, trying to feel gloomy and pessimistic, and not succeeding at all.


	26. Chapter 26

"Go left! Go left!" yelled Peter, heading right, and Neal took off, gravel crunching under his shoes and then hard unyielding pavement as he sprinted through the park, dodging joggers and a group of teenagers and three different couples with strollers. He kept catching sight of Wiseman—or someone who looked like him—but he couldn't get close enough to grab him.

But Wiseman wouldn't get far. Peter would have called for backup by now, and the net would be closing in.

Neal came to a fork in the path and paused to catch his breath and weigh his options. The next second, a rough arm wrapped across his throat, pressing down on his windpipe and pulling him off balance against a heaving chest. The unmistakable barrel of a gun jabbed Neal in the temple.

"You're my ticket out of here," said Wiseman's rough voice in his ear. "Don't do anything stupid."

"If you say so." Neal scanned the area as well as he could. There was a flash of navy blue suit among the trees, heading this way. Neal needed to distract Wiseman. "You know, if you shoot me now, I won't be much use to you."

In his peripheral vision, he saw Wiseman's finger withdraw from the trigger as the reasoning sank in. Neal had to act now and hope that the FBI agent barreling towards them would be quick off the mark. Another glimpse of navy blue. The agent was close.

Neal took a deep breath and elbowed Wiseman in the solar plexus as hard as he could, shoving his gun-hand up as he did so and creating a few seconds' window so he could struggle out of Wiseman's hold. Neal fell onto the path, grazing his wrist, and scrambled to put as much space between them as he could.

Wiseman turned toward him, anger and desperation on his face. His gun glinted in the sun as it came up. Crap!

"FBI. Drop your weapon! Hands in the air!" Jones ran to a halt on the path a few feet away.

Wiseman flinched at the shout and swung wildly. The report of his gun made Neal's ears ring and his heart race. For a horrible moment, he thought Jones might be down, but no, he was still there, solid and in one beautiful piece, with his usual air of FBI authority. Still covering Wiseman.

"Drop your weapon!" Jones repeated firmly.

Neal met his eye quickly, nodded, and when Wiseman growled and lowered his gun slightly, Neal reached up and yanked it to the side, making Wiseman swear. Neal confiscated it, emptied the chamber and engaged the safety while Jones grabbed Wiseman's wrist and got out his cuffs.

A second later, Peter and Diana showed up from different directions.

Neal stayed on the path, his forearms on his knees, while they made the arrest. He hated being taken hostage, even if only momentarily, and his heart was still beating double time from the gunshot. He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady.

A shadow covered his knees, and he looked up to see Jones standing over him, frowning. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Neal took his outstretched hand—warm, strong and reassuring—and let himself be pulled to his feet. "Your timing was perfect. Thanks."

"Any time." Jones' frown cleared. He licked his lips.

They were standing too close, and Neal didn't want to move away, but Peter was saying something and Diana appeared at Neal's side.

"What's that smudge on your face?" she asked.

Jones released Neal's hand to touch his upper arm, a steadying gesture, and all the adrenaline in Neal's system turned into a strange unexpected euphoria. He grinned.

Jones took Wiseman's gun out of Neal's loose grip and grinned back, stepping away.

"Neal?" prompted Diana.

Neal rubbed at his temple, the spot where Wiseman had pressed his gun barrel, and looked at the resulting grime on his fingers. "Someone doesn't keep their gun clean," he told Diana.

Jones and Diana escorted Wiseman away to the car, and Peter gave Neal a look.

"What?" said Neal, falling into step beside him.

"You're pretty happy for someone who just had a gun to his neck."

Neal dialed down his smile. "Actually, it was my forehead."

"I can see how that would make all the difference," said Peter, rolling his eyes.

"I'm happy we caught the bad guy," said Neal. "Would you rather I needed trauma counseling every time something like this happened?"

"No."

"Okay, then." Neal slid his hands into his pockets and managed through sheer force of will not to whistle a cheerful tune.

"I'd rather things like this didn't happen," muttered Peter.

"Oh, me too." Neal shrugged. "Sadly the criminal element doesn't seem to agree."

Peter didn't even take advantage of the opening to needle him. He just looked preoccupied and got out his keys as they arrived back at the car.


	27. Chapter 27

Clinton drove back to the Bureau with Diana in the passenger seat and Wiseman in the back behind shatterproof glass. The sun was glaring, light bouncing off the hood of the car, and as they came to a stop at some traffic lights, Clinton slid his sunglasses onto his nose. It was a beautiful day.

Diana looked across at him and snorted with laughter.

"What?" said Clinton, grinning in sympathy.

"I'll tell you one thing—you can rule out having a secret affair," she said. "You were _holding hands_ back there. I seriously thought you were going to start making out in front of Peter. If I hadn't interrupted—"

"Okay, okay, you've made your point." Clinton's good humor dimmed.

Diana held up her hand in apology, and her expression grew serious. "What are you going to do?"

"Do I have a choice?" said Clinton. "Nothing." The lights changed, and he moved forward with the other traffic.

Diana shook her head. "You're kidding yourself. Oh, and also? Whatever label Caffrey says he is, he's into you."

"He's just flirting. It's no big deal," said Clinton, lying through his teeth, but he kept his distance from Neal for the rest of the work day, all the more careful because he could pinpoint Neal's location in the office at any given moment without even looking.

Avoidance stopped being an option that evening: it was the White Collar team's inaugural bowling night. Diana couldn't make it because Christie's parents were flying in at eight, so Peter called Elizabeth to sub in, and that was it: Peter and Elizabeth, Clinton and Neal.

Peter, Neal and Clinton went their separate ways after work, and they and Elizabeth met up outside the alley at seven, all of them in jeans and t-shirts. Clinton hadn't seen Neal in casual clothes before, and the contrast with his usually tailored appearance was striking. He looked more real, more accessible, with his soft indigo tee clinging to his chest and his casual-fit jeans, and Clinton was overcome with the urge to call the evening off, ditch the Burkes and take Neal somewhere private.

Neal met his gaze, his eyes dark and unguarded, and Clinton flushed and forced himself to look away. They were in public. With their boss. This was no time for inappropriate thoughts. Clinton turned to Elizabeth and exchanged greetings with her, and then Peter shepherded them inside.

"I thought we could have a few weeks' practice before we start challenging the other units," Peter explained as they entered the crowded bowling alley, "but we've got Kidnapping and Missing Persons lined up for August, and Ruiz took great pleasure in informing me that Organized Crime are going to kick our butts in early September."

Peter had booked a lane. He, Elizabeth and Clinton exchanged their shoes for rentals, but Neal produced a pair of his own. "Turns out Byron was a bowler."

"So you won't have to sully your feet like the common man," teased Clinton. He'd regained his composure and had resolved to enjoy the evening. It wasn't a date, and Peter had sanctioned the event. This thing with Neal couldn't go anywhere, but if Clinton stopped being so wound up about it, maybe they could be friends. He sat down next to Neal and they changed their shoes.

"June said these are Byron's lucky shoes, so I'm fully expecting to ascend to a higher level of bowling," said Neal. "We're going to wipe the floor with Peter and Elizabeth." He seemed to be trying too, keeping his tone light and casual.

"No, you're not," said Peter, standing over them. "Neal, you're on my team. Clinton, you're with El."

"And we're going to hand you your asses," Elizabeth told Neal solemnly.

"Let's start by loosening up," said Peter. "Save the death matches for later."

So they played. After a few minutes, Clinton found his rhythm and relaxed. It was all so familiar—the ambient noise with its rumbles and chatter and the clatter of pins falling, the physical moves of the game, the satisfaction of releasing the ball with enough spin that it flew down the lane, sure and steady, even the indefinable smells of the place. Clinton had missed this, and the camaraderie that came with it. It was good to be back.

"Having fun?" asked Neal, when Clinton returned from rolling a spare.

Clinton grinned at him. "You bet." And then it sank in: Neal didn't care about bowling any more than Clinton cared about conceptual art. Neal had planned this evening for Clinton. It was a gift. Clinton swallowed. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Neal's smile widened as he went to collect his ball and take his turn.

Clinton and Elizabeth won the first game, and they all bought sodas and were about to start the next when Neal turned to Peter. "What do you say we make this a little more interesting?"

"What did you have in mind?" asked Elizabeth, but Neal's focus was on Peter.

"Well?" said Peter.

Neal raised his chin. "We win the next game _and_ I score higher than you, and I win one date with the Federal agent of my choice—assuming that agent agrees, of course."

Peter looked at Clinton, who shrugged, refusing to take a side, even though the mere suggestion of a sanctioned date with Neal was reawakening the spark in his chest that had smoldered during their fake date, before everything had gotten intense and messed up.

Peter turned back to Neal and smiled wryly. "Why do I feel like I'm caving to the inevitable? All right, you've got a bet. But what do I get if I win?"

"What do you want?" asked Neal.

"You behave for one week," said Peter promptly. "Follow all the rules, obey the spirit as well as the letter of the law and stay completely clean, with no complaints."

Clinton drank a mouthful of Coke and crunched an ice cube, not sure how he felt about this. There was a good chance Neal would lose: his game had improved since he'd first played earlier that week, but it was still uneven, more art than science. He was definitely the weakest player of the four of them. And a week felt like a hell of a long time to not even nudge the rules temporarily aside.

But Neal looked confident. "One week," he said. "Done. Let's bowl."

"Good luck," said Elizabeth. It wasn't clear who she was addressing. She grinned up at Clinton, obviously aware of the implications of the bet, and Clinton wondered if Peter had told her or if she'd just figured it out from seeing him and Neal together this evening.

The game passed in a blur. Neal started strongly, and Clinton settled into a steady pace, not trying too hard but refusing to throw the game completely. Elizabeth seemed like she was holding back, like she wanted Neal to win, but Peter and Neal were both giving it everything—which made sense. They were both competitive guys, and they liked to get one up on each other.

By halfway, it was pretty clear that Neal and Peter were going to beat Clinton and Elizabeth, but not which of them would come out ahead. Clinton watched Neal's shoulders move in his t-shirt, his ass in his jeans, as Neal bowled ball after ball, battling for the right to ask him out.

On his tenth frame, he got seven pins, not the spare or strike he needed to win conclusively, and Clinton, Elizabeth and Neal watched in silence as Peter took his final turn.

Peter bowled a strike and took two more rolls to complete the game. He'd won.

Elizabeth let out a little "Aww" of disappointment.

Neal hung his head for a moment, then looked up, a rueful smile on his face. "So much for lucky shoes."

Even Peter looked sorry, but he clapped Neal on the shoulder. "No complaints. Come on, we'll drive you home."

"Good game," said Neal. "I'll get you next time."

"It was a good game," said Clinton.

Neal met his eye and gave a tiny shrug, and Clinton nodded. One week of good behavior—the bet applied as much to him as it did to Neal, and they both knew they had to abide by it. Clinton sat down next to Elizabeth to take off his shoes.


	28. Chapter 28

Neal sat in the back seat of Peter's car and schooled himself to accept that he'd lost the bet. Elizabeth and Peter were quiet for several blocks, giving him plenty of time to dwell on it, until somewhere around West 49th Street, Elizabeth cleared her throat.

"A week's not that long," she said.

Peter sighed as if he'd been holding it in. "Neal's not being sent to a gulag. He just has to behave himself—something, I'd like to point out, he should be doing all the time, as a matter of course. It's not that great a hardship."

"I was the one who suggested the bet," said Neal in reply to Elizabeth.

"Regretting it?" she asked.

"It's only a week," said Neal, mindful of the 'no complaints' clause.

Elizabeth twisted in her seat to look at him. "There's nothing to stop you spending time together as friends."

"The spirit as well as the letter of the law," Neal reminded her. Seeing Jones outside of a work context would definitely contravene the spirit of the law, given Neal's feelings and Jones' apparent reciprocation. In fact, it was only Jones' reaction to him—and to the bowling and the possibility of a date—that was giving Neal the fortitude to face the next week with good grace. Because once the week was up—then all literal and figurative bets would be off.

"I'm not the bad guy here," said Peter.

"No, you're not, honey," said Elizabeth, patting his arm. "I'm sorry." She let a few seconds pass, and then changed the subject to the problem of scheduling Satchmo's yearly checkup at the vet.

Neal listened with half an ear and distracted himself from thoughts of Jones by considering the constraints of the bet. When there was a gap in the conversation, he interrupted. "Peter—can I still associate with Moz?"

In the rear view mirror, he saw Peter frown at the apparent non sequitur and then the change in his expression as comprehension struck: parolees weren't supposed to have contact with other felons, and although Mozzie had never been arrested, much less convicted of a crime, the spirit of the law said Neal should eschew his company.

"That's fine," said Peter, gruffly. "Mozzie can be the exception that proves the rule."

Neal refrained from pointing out that 'proving' in that context meant 'to test the rule'; he wasn't in a great position to be pedantic, too disconcerted by the fact that, having lost the bet less than half an hour ago, he was already asking for concessions. This week might be more of a challenge than he'd thought.

Peter pulled up outside June's. "Just do the best you can, Neal. Don't tie yourself up in knots about it."

"A deal is a deal," said Neal. "I'll see you Monday. Goodnight, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth waved goodbye and Peter gave Neal a familiar shake of his head, half fond and half exasperated, and drove off into the night.

Neal went inside, where he found Mozzie sitting on his couch with a glass of red wine and a book. Mozzie looked up when Neal came in, and lamplight glinted off his glasses.

Neal dropped the bag containing Byron's bowling shoes onto the end of his bed. He poured himself a glass of wine, set the half-empty bottle on the coffee table and slumped tiredly into the armchair across from Mozzie. "Hey."

"Neal, I need a favor." Mozzie lowered his book. "You know that antique clock I sold to—"

"Moz, I can't."

"—the Turkish gentleman? I need authentication documents for it."

"Sorry, Moz," said Neal. "I lost a bet tonight."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Nothing illegal for a week, according to the letter and the spirit of the law."

Mozzie blinked. "Why would you agree to that?" he said, clearly baffled. "And who would be misguided enough to ask it of you? Wait, I suppose _that's_ a redundant question: Feds."

"I had my reasons." Neal ran his hand through his hair. "So no, I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"Hmph." Mozzie took a sip of wine. "Can I borrow your equipment?"

"That would be aiding and abetting."

Mozzie's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious."

"It's only a week," said Neal. It was becoming a refrain.

Mozzie closed his mouth and peered at him, his eyes big behind his glasses. "Something's going on." He pointed at Neal. "What would you have won, if the bet had gone in your favor?"

Neal raised his glass almost to his lips. "A date with Jones." He drank, carefully savoring the wine and avoiding Mozzie's suddenly searching gaze.

" _Agent_ Jones?" Mozzie stared into the middle distance, taking his time to digest that. His eyebrows drew together and his next question ended half an octave higher than it began. "Operation Gay Sex?"

"Sort of," said Neal. It had started out that way.

Mozzie sighed and poured himself another glass of wine. "Irony being one of the fundamental forces of nature, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you fell in love with a Suit."

Neal froze. "Who said anything about love?"

"Neal, you wagered away all loopholes and rule-bending for an entire week," said Mozzie, patiently. "'Love is not a feeling of happiness. Love is a willingness to sacrifice.'"

"Michael Novak," said Neal. "I think you're jumping to conclusions." He really didn't want to have this conversation right now. Nor did he want to tell Mozzie what game he'd bet on, because Neal might never live it down if Mozzie learned he'd bet on bowling and lost. So he pointed to the book in Mozzie's lap. "What're you reading?"

" _23 Things They Don't Tell You About Capitalism_ by Ha-Joon Chang," said Mozzie. "It's for book club." He handed it to Neal, who skimmed the table of contents.

"Is this telling you anything you don't already believe?"

"That's not the point," said Mozzie huffily, and the conversation was successfully steered to safer waters. But echoes of it kept Neal awake that night, long after Mozzie's snores began to emanate from the direction of the couch.


	29. Chapter 29

Clinton spent half the weekend thinking about sex to the point where he could barely tie his shoes. He went through the motions, doing chores, running errands and working out at the gym, but his mind was on Neal and the bet.

On Sunday he had brunch with some old friends from Harvard, and then he dropped in to see Aaron. Clinton knew the code for the street entrance, and the door to the apartment was rarely locked, so he let himself in, stopping dead when he saw the place was empty. "Hello?"

"Hi," came Aaron's voice from his bedroom. He poked his head out the door. "Hey. Get me a beer?"

Clinton grabbed two bottles from the fridge, dropped their lids in the trash and went through to Aaron's small bedroom, which was crowded with a dozen empty boxes and three that were taped and stacked in the corner. Aaron was throwing several pairs of worn-out gym shoes into a trash bag.

Clinton handed him a beer and retreated to the bed, where he'd be out of the way. He kicked off his sneakers and put his feet up. "Where is everyone?"

"Ultimate practice." Aaron pulled some wrinkled, smelly ski pants out of the bottom of his closet and threw them in the trash. "How's it going with Neal?"

"Complicated." Clinton snagged a green inflatable turtle from the shelf beside the bed and tossed it in the air.

Aaron took a swig of beer and eyed Clinton thoughtfully. "Is he married?"

"No."

"Into drugs?"

"No. It's nothing like that." There was a bell inside the turtle that jingled when Clinton shook it.

Aaron swiped the turtle out of Clinton's hand and slam dunked it through the basketball hoop on the back of his bedroom door. "Okay, so not impossibly complicated."

"Feels like it." Clinton drew a line in the condensation on his beer bottle. "But no, not impossibly."

Aaron nodded, dumped a stack of photo albums in the box on the floor and flopped onto the bed next to Clinton. "Christ, I hate packing." He grinned up and raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Distract me?"

Clinton stayed where he was. "Listen, Aaron. I'm sorry. I can't do this—us—anymore."

Aaron tilted his head. "It's that serious, huh?"

"I think it might be." Clinton grimaced apologetically. "Still friends?"

"Like I'd get huffy and never see you again," said Aaron, shaking his head. "Idiot. I'm happy for you." He looked sincere. "Though I don't see why you couldn't have waited another couple of weeks, jeez."

"You were trying to set me up with Ron," Clinton reminded him. "You almost held a gun to my head."

"I did, didn't I?" Aaron grinned, clearly unrepentant. He sat up so he could take another drink of beer. "This Neal had better treat you right. But you know, don't be too hard on him—I'm a tough act to follow."

"He'll manage somehow," said Clinton drily.

Aaron poked him in the ribs. "And you have to bring him to my going away party."

"Yeah, if—if it works out." Clinton tried to imagine Neal socializing with Aaron, Darren and Sal, let alone their more out-there friends. The thought made him grin.

"Jesus, Clinton," said Aaron impatiently, "you have to make it work. If you want him, do something about it—don't just wait for him to come to you."

"Okay," said Clinton. Aaron was right: so far, Neal had taken all the risks and made most of the moves. The ball was in Clinton's court now. "Okay, I will."

"Good," said Aaron. He stood up again. "So, Agent Jones, can I interest you in a pristine copy of the complete works of Lovecraft? No? How about my Conan collection?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Clinton. "I'll take the turtle."

Aaron put down the stack of books he was sorting, grabbed the turtle and dropped it in the open box. "No way. The turtle's coming with me. Get your own turtle."

"Maybe I will," said Clinton, grinning. They were good, still friends, Neal or no Neal.

Clinton got home just after eight, cooked himself an omelet and sat down on the couch with his phone. His heart was beating a little too fast, and his palms were slightly damp, but he took a deep breath and called Neal anyway. "Hey."

"Hi." Neal sounded surprised. "Jones."

"Clinton," said Clinton. "How's it going?"

"Oh, you know, can't complain," said Neal, his tone light with humor. "Not allowed to complain. Clinton." The humor dropped away. "Are we allowed to be having this conversation?"

"Yeah." Clinton took a breath. "I just wanted to tell you, you did the right thing, trying to get Peter to agree, even if it didn't work. I was in the Navy under Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I've done the sneaking around thing, and it's no good. If things get messed up, you can't talk to anyone. There's no pressure valve."

"Okay," said Neal, drawing out the syllables. "So—?"

"So," said Clinton. He pressed his toes against the edge of the coffee table. "Are you still thinking about this as a one-time deal?"

He heard Neal's intake of breath. "What you said on our fake date, you were right."

"Which part?"

"You said either I was treating you like a theme park ride or I was lying to myself," said Neal.

Clinton closed his eyes. "So?"

"So I'm not straight." Neal sounded firm, as if he'd been thinking about it. He sounded sure. "I thought I was because I never had any evidence to the contrary, but now—I don't know what I am: bi or gay. I'm bent." There was a faint sound like a sigh or a loud swallow. "This would be a hell of a lot easier in person."

"We can't," said Clinton, as much as reminder to himself as to Neal.

"Believe me, I know. It's killing me."

Clinton bit his lip. "Neal, is this a con?"

There was silence for a moment. "Why would you ask me that?"

"I've seen you in action," said Clinton, being as honest as he could, even if it risked hurting Neal's feelings. "I know who you are, what you've done. And—I get suspicious when people tell me exactly what I want to hear."

"Clinton," said Neal. "It's not a con. I want you."

Clinton tightened his grip on the phone, unable to express how turned on he was or how moved. "Okay," he said, hoarsely. "Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," said Neal. "Tomorrow. I'll be the one on his best behavior."


	30. Chapter 30

When Neal walked into the office the next morning at eight-thirty sharp, something was definitely up. The junior agents were grouped by the coffee machine, gossiping, and they turned to look with open curiosity as Neal hung up his hat and jacket.

Also, there was a large cardboard box standing open on Clinton's suspiciously tidy desk. Clinton himself was nowhere in sight, but Diana was in Peter's office with the door open, so Neal ran up the stairs to say good morning. "What's going on?"

"Oh, it's you," said Peter gruffly. "You've cost me one of my best agents."

Neal sent Diana an enquiring look. 

"Anne-Marie Fischer from Kidnapping and Missing Persons was shot in the shoulder last week, and the bullet clipped her lung. She's going to be okay, but she'll be off work for at least ten weeks."

"That's too bad," said Neal automatically. "So?"

"So Jones is filling in for her," said Peter, looking up at him. "Short-term secondment."

"Oh," said Neal blankly. Clinton was leaving the White Collar unit. That meant— " _Oh._ "

"Yeah," said Diana, grinning. "The rules just changed."

"The rules haven't changed," Peter corrected her. "It's the game that's different. And may I remind you both that we're not actually here for games. We're an agent down and we still have criminals to catch. I want everyone in the conference room in five minutes."

"Yes, boss," said Diana.

Lost in the implications of this new development, Neal hardly heard either of them, and Diana had to shoo him out of Peter's office ahead of her.

"Congratulations," she told Neal, when they reached the relative privacy of the landing at the top of the stairs. "If you hurt him, I'll break your kneecaps."

Neal didn't think she was serious, but it was still a little daunting to realize that the entire team—as well as some members of Kidnapping and Missing Persons, no doubt—knew what was going on with him and Clinton, and they'd probably all take Clinton's side if something did go wrong.

On the other hand, there was a good chance Neal was going to have sex with Clinton sometime in the next couple of days, and that pretty much outweighed every other concern Neal could think of.

Clinton wasn't answering his phone, so Neal sat down and made a quick origami butterfly, which he left in the box on Clinton's desk. Then he grabbed a cup of coffee and went up to the conference room.

The briefing lasted over an hour and ended with Peter telling Neal that they were leaving in ten minutes to go and interview one of the victims at her restaurant. "Sure," said Neal. "Ten minutes."

He escaped to the wider office to find that Clinton's possessions had been cleared from his desk and there was a yellow post-it note stuck to the edge of Neal's monitor with a smiley face drawn on it, completely innocuous except that Neal knew who must have put it there.

Clinton still wasn't answering his phone, so Neal sent him a text: _Have you got plans tonight? Let me buy you a drink to celebrate your secondment._

The reply arrived half an hour later in the middle of the victim interview. Neal checked it discreetly. It simply said the name of a bar a couple of blocks from Clinton's apartment and a time: 7pm.

Neal slid his phone back into his pocket, not sure what to make of the brevity of the message or Clinton's unavailability for phone calls, but looking forward to that evening all the same.

"Neal?" said Peter, rolling his eyes, and Neal forced his attention back to the case.


	31. Chapter 31

Clinton watched himself in the mirror as he shaved. It had been a long day of learning the ropes and getting to know the people on his new team—several of whom were still shaken by Fischer's shooting—and tomorrow would be just as demanding, if not more so. He was dog-tired and if it hadn't been for Neal, he would have grabbed a snack, watched some TV and had an early night. But then, Neal was the whole point of this exercise.

Clinton rinsed off his razor and put it away, slapped on some aftershave and went to get dressed. It was quarter to seven. He needed to get moving. He was buttoning his shirt when someone knocked on his door. Clinton checked his watch, hoping that whoever it was wouldn't delay him too much, but when he opened the door, it was Neal standing there and Clinton's weariness fell away. "Hi."

"Hi." Neal was wearing dark slacks and a blue shirt, and there was a small smile playing around his mouth. He handed Clinton a bottle of wine and said, "I thought—We can still go out if you want."

Clinton put the wine down on the nearest available surface, the floor, and reached for him. They should talk about this, about all of it, but they were finally allowed to be together and Clinton's brain was short-circuiting. Talking could wait.

Neal moved into his arms and met his lips without any hesitation, and Clinton tried to hold back, to take it slow, but it was Neal pressing against him, Neal groaning into his mouth. Clinton's control cracked and crumbled. He slid his fingers into Neal's hair, shaping his skull and kissed him deeply, overwhelmed by the collision of their bodies. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding, and Neal was kissing back just as hard, just as needy. Neal was touching him, trailing heat down his sides, across the small of his back, clutching Clinton through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Clinton tore his mouth free. "Not here."

"Here," said Neal. His eyes were dark and lust-blurred, his lips red from kissing. "Now. Don't make me wait anymore." He slung his arm around Clinton's neck and took his mouth again, leaning in so hard that Clinton fell back a step and bumped against the open front door. Neal followed and canted his hips forward, his erection grinding against Clinton's through their pants.

Clinton surrendered helplessly. "Okay, yes, _now._ "

Somehow they stumbled a few feet further inside, still holding each other, knocking over the wine bottle, which rolled toward the wall. Clinton shoved the door shut, and the small part of his mind that had been aware of the world around them went silent at last, leaving him molten with desire and utterly absorbed in Neal, in the lithe strength of his body and the urgency of his mouth. Neal tugged Clinton's shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it first, and Clinton pulled Neal's free of his pants, and oh fuck, Clinton wasn't going to last. Neal's skin was smooth and warm everywhere Clinton put his hands, and when Clinton pulled Neal's shirt up and out of the way and dropped it to the floor, their naked torsos came together at last, both of them slightly sweaty in the warm evening air and the heat of their embrace. Clinton shivered and bent his head to inhale Neal's scent and taste his skin.

Neal wormed a hand between them and started working Clinton's pants open, and Clinton held his breath, waiting for the first brush of Neal's fingers on his cock. When it came, it was almost too much. Neal's hand curled around him, and Neal breathed out a long sigh that sounded like relief.

Clinton kissed him messily and wrapped his hand around Neal's, tightening Neal's grip, urging his hand into the fast stroke Clinton needed. He was vaguely aware he was being selfish, not attending to Neal's arousal, not giving Neal time and space to find his own rhythm, to do it his way. Against every instinct, Clinton forced himself to unclench his hand and pull back. "Is this—?"

"It's good," said Neal. "It's so good. Let me." He nudged Clinton's legs further apart with his knee and lengthened his strokes.

"Oh _fuck_!" Clinton tensed, overtaken by a pleasure so bright it was blinding, and then he was coming, shooting onto Neal's stomach, brought there by the perfect pressure of Neal's hand.

Clinton reveled in the glow for a second or two, catching his breath, startled by the speed with which they'd gone from Neal's unexpected arrival less than ten minutes earlier to here, half naked and spent. He pulled himself together. Neal hadn't come yet. Neal was still turned on.

Clinton wanted to spread him naked on the bed and learn his body and tease him mercilessly, to fuck him or be fucked by him—he wanted everything, and there'd be time for self-indulgence later, perhaps. But for now, Neal had a week of pent-up frustration that needed attention.

Neal traced a line down Clinton's neck with his fingertip, down his chest. "I've been thinking about this—about you." He ran the finger through the slick patch on his own stomach and brought it to his lips. "What you'd taste like." He licked his finger clean, his gaze bold and direct.

Clinton caught his hand and took him to the couch, and by silent agreement, they discarded the rest of their clothes, casting them aside carelessly and coming back together to kiss again, fervent and reckless. Clinton wasn't wracked with urgency anymore, but he could feel Neal's hunger. "What can I do for you?" Clinton asked. "What do you want?"

Neal's eyes were hot. "I want your mouth on me."

"Yeah." Clinton pushed him gently onto the couch and knelt between his legs, bringing himself down to Neal's thick, hard cock, taking it into his mouth. He cupped Neal's balls and fondled them, and let his lips get good and wet, sucking Neal off with pleasure. Clinton was experienced; he'd done this probably a couple of hundred times before with a dozen different guys, and objectively Neal wasn't that different—fit and good-looking, but not unique in those regards. But Clinton had never felt like this before. He looked up to find Neal watching, his face flushed, lips parted. He was gripping the couch cushions, his knuckles going white, and Clinton wanted to climb up and lie with him, to cover his body, but not yet, not yet. He stayed where he was, putting his heart into it.

Too soon, Neal transferred his grip to Clinton's shoulder and choked out a warning, and the next second, Neal was coming in Clinton's mouth, pulsing onto his tongue. Clinton closed his eyes and swallowed, fully conscious of the feel and taste and scent of him, of how much he wanted this thing between them to last. He licked Neal clean and moved up to sit beside him, clearing his throat. "So, hi, how was your day?"

Neal laughed. He pushed Clinton against the arm of the couch and stretched out beside him, kissing him, first languid and easy and then with growing enthusiasm until they were both breathless and Clinton was turned on again.

"Come to bed with me," said Clinton, and Neal said, "Yeah." Neal levered himself off the couch and gave Clinton a hand up, and they kissed some more because Clinton couldn't help himself, because kissing Neal was his new favorite thing. Then Neal laughed against his mouth and said, "Bed, remember?" and Clinton grinned too and showed him the way to the bedroom.


	32. Chapter 32

Neal hadn't meant to jump Clinton the moment he answered the door. He'd taken a chance on Clinton coming home before their date and figured maybe they'd be better off in private than in another noisy bar, and sure, Neal had hoped to get up close and personal with him sometime that evening, but courtesy dictated a glass or two of wine first, some civilized conversation, not grabbing him and jerking him off just inside his front door. Hell, Neal would have done it in the street if Clinton hadn't steered him inside.

Clinton made him lose control; it was exhilarating and just a little bit scary.

And then Clinton had stripped naked and gone down on Neal, giving every sign that he was enjoying it too, which had been incredible to watch _and_ had turned Neal's brain inside out, it'd felt so good. So they'd come to the bedroom to do it all over again.

The bedroom wasn't spacious, but the bed was inviting. The sheets were pure cotton and clean, both of which Neal appreciated, and Clinton was aroused again, which Neal appreciated even more. He was halfway there himself.

They lay down and made out for a while, and Clinton's ankle bumped the tracker once or twice, but he didn't say anything or seem bothered by it. Neal discovered a few of Clinton's ticklish spots, which he filed away for later use. Then Clinton started hitching his hips forward, clearly in need of proper stimulation, so Neal kissed his way down Clinton's extremely kissable body and gave his first blowjob, messy and inexpert, but ultimately successful. It was a rush, as if their desire was tightening the air around them, binding them together. Neal crawled back up and Clinton stroked Neal's cock in return, kissing him the whole time, which made Neal's throat ache. He came, long and bone deep, and this time there were even tissues on hand to clean up with.

He grabbed a handful, used them and threw them in the trash, and when he turned back to the bed, Clinton was asleep. For a second, Neal thought he was faking, as a joke, but Clinton didn't respond to his name, and he didn't open his eyes when Neal lay down next to him and pulled the covers up. A few seconds later, he rolled towards Neal, slung his arm low across Neal's belly and made a noise in his ear that was somewhere between a snort and a snore.

It was ridiculously endearing. Neal grinned and let himself doze, content just to be there.

He was woken by a loud yawn in his ear. "What time is it?" said Clinton, his voice thick with sleep.

Neal rubbed his eyes and checked the clock. It was past nine. Clinton got up on one elbow, looking past him, checking the glowing red digits for himself.

"Damn, I'm sorry." He looked down at Neal. "You should have woken me."

"It's fine," said Neal. "Come here." He pulled him down and kissed him, seriously considering round three, but Clinton's head dropped back onto the pillow and he still looked tired. "Tough day?" said Neal.

"It's an adjustment," said Clinton, shrugging one shoulder. "I'll be fine."

Neal turned to face him. "Tell me."

Clinton met his gaze and something in his expression relaxed, reserve giving way to tenderness. He put his hand on Neal's hip. "Kidnapping and Missing Persons runs on a different clock, and I'm pretty sure Rice is coming down especially hard on me because of the circumstances."

"You're working for Rice?" Neal raised his eyebrows. "How's that going?"

"Agent Rice does not want her agents distracted by their personal lives," said Clinton flatly. "In particular, Agent Rice does not like her agents to get romantically involved with CIs."

Neal frowned. "Hey, remember when the Gless girl got kidnapped, and Rice sold me out to Wilkes? She owes me."

"It's okay," Clinton told him. "She owed Peter too. He called it in this morning."

Surprise erased Neal's indignation. "Really?"

"Went in to bat for us." Clinton leaned in and gave Neal a soft, sweet kiss that lingered.

"Wow." Neal tried to process that information, but Clinton's mouth was distracting and his body wasn't far behind. "That must be why Peter was so cranky today." Neal put a hand on Clinton's chest to hold him at bay. "Plus he misses you. I mean, we all do, but Peter—he relies on you. You know how he hates change."

Clinton nuzzled the angle of Neal's neck. "Are you saying I should come back to White Collar?" he asked, sounding amused.

"No." Neal hooked his ankle around Clinton's calf to pull him closer and ran his hands down the sweep of his back, forgetting about Peter and work and everything outside of this bed with this man. "No, I like this better."


	33. Chapter 33

It was ten-thirty by the time hunger drove them out of bed. Clinton's weariness had been replaced with a dazed satisfaction, his body relaxed to the core and humming with residual pleasure. He looked in the refrigerator, but he didn't think he could even manage to boil an egg right now, so he closed it again, grabbed a couple of takeout menus and went into the living room, where Neal was browsing the bookcase. Like Clinton, he was wearing nothing but shorts—aside from the black plastic of his anklet—and the sight of him, of the body that Clinton had held and licked and rubbed against all evening, of Neal here in Clinton's living room, finally his, sparked that ache in Clinton's chest again, but it was a good ache now. This was all good.

"I'm going to send out for Thai, Indian or pizza," he said, making himself focus on practicalities so he wouldn't sweep Neal into his arms and say something stupidly romantic. "Or we could go out and get a burger."

"Not if it means getting dressed," said Neal. "I need a shower." He came over and tapped the menus, smiling. "Anything's fine."

Clinton let the menus fall to the floor. He pulled Neal close and kissed him, long, lazy, self-indulgent kisses, and Neal responded, wrapping his arms around Clinton's waist.

After a few minutes, Neal started laughing. "Oh God, we're never going to eat." He rested his head on Clinton's shoulder. "They're going to find our withered bodies, the dry husks of our former selves."

"I'll order pizza," said Clinton, starting to let him go.

Neal held on. "Hey, no, I wasn't complaining. It was just an observation."

He sought Clinton's mouth, but Clinton fended him off, picked up the menus and made the call—pizza, because it required the least brainpower. "They said twenty-five minutes," he said when he'd disconnected. "That's enough time for a shower."

"Together?" Neal's gaze was full of heat and mischief.

Clinton shook his head and tried to hide his grin. "You'll be the death of me, Caffrey."

"I hope not." Neal backed him against the doorjamb and nuzzled his neck. "I have plans for you, Jones."

"Don't you ever run out of steam?" But Clinton's hands were already on Neal's hips, landing there by instinct, his thumbs brushing the bare skin of Neal's belly, fingers curling over the elastic waist of Neal's boxers.

Neal raised his head and kissed Clinton's jaw, then the corner of his mouth. "Try me."

"I thought you wanted a shower." Clinton made himself let go. Neal looked briefly disappointed, but he was easily consoled by the promise of a shower and food, especially when Clinton shared the shower with him—a shower that involved a lot of mutual soaping and teasing, but no actual sex. Maybe Neal had discovered his limits, thought Clinton, at least on an empty stomach.

Afterwards, Clinton pulled on a t-shirt as well as clean shorts, so as not to scare the pizza guy, and Neal retrieved the wine from the floor by the front door and poured a couple of glasses. It was easy and comfortable. Neal sat on the couch right next to Clinton, practically leaning on him.

It wasn't just sex, Clinton realized: it was about physical connection. Neal was a tactile guy, taking advantage of any excuse to touch Clinton, and he sure wasn't shy. He didn't seemed to see any need to hold back, either, apparently taking Clinton's reciprocating for granted.

As a rule, Clinton was more inclined to inch his way into relationships, making sure there were plenty of boundaries in place, but tonight he threw caution to the wind and let himself enjoy Neal's company and his closeness.

After the pizza arrived, the subject of bowling somehow came up. "You've created a monster," Clinton told Neal. "Peter was even talking about getting a trophy."

Neal snorted and swallowed a mouthful of pepperoni. "When did he say that?"

"This morning, when we met with Rice." Clinton elbowed Neal. "Oh, and that was another concession we had to make: I'm on the Kidnapping and Missing Persons bowling team for the duration of my secondment."

Neal's eyes widened in comical dismay. "I have to bowl without you?"

"Unless you can talk Peter into letting you out of it," said Clinton. "But given the whole thing was your idea—"

Neal closed his eyes and shook his head. "One time," he said, sounding pained. "I suggested we go bowling one time."

"And now it's a league." Clinton grinned and drank a mouthful of wine. He wasn't a connoisseur, but he could tell it was good—rich and fruity—and its effects, combined with his tiredness and the post-sex glow, filled him with sleepy contentment.

Neal sighed and ate the rest of his slice. "Well, silver lining, it got us here, so it was worth it."

He cast Clinton a sideways glance, as if testing his reaction. It was a tiny crack in his confident façade, and Clinton responded by clinking his glass against Neal's in a toast. "To bowling."


	34. Chapter 34

Neal walked into work the next morning feeling on top of the world. He ran up the stairs and deposited a small, tasteful gift basket on Peter's desk.

"What's this?" asked Peter, pulling it across the desk. He picked out a jar of English marmalade.

Neal slid his hands into his pockets. "It's a thank you for taking on Rice."

"You're welcome." Peter looked as if he were about to say more, but he returned his attention to the condiments instead.

Neal sat down in the visitors chair. He was acutely conscious of how good he felt—happy, relaxed, satisfied—and he knew he was doing a bad job of hiding it, but he didn't think Peter would begrudge him a day or two of reveling. So what was with Peter's faint frown? Neal decided to go with the direct approach. "Is there a problem?"

"No." Peter looked up, smiling. "Good for you."

"Peter?"

Peter sighed and sat back, his smile fading. "All right, I'll admit I'm concerned, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

Neal raised his eyebrows, but he already knew what Peter was going to say: a Fed and a felon—on paper, it wasn't exactly the perfect match.

"I'm concerned for my team," said Peter slowly, "and—as a friend, I'm concerned about you."

"Me?"

"You've been through a lot over the last few years, and when you fall, you fall fast and hard." Peter looked uncomfortable; he never enjoyed talking about personal stuff, but Neal didn't let him off the hook. After a moment, Peter continued. "Jones is a good man, but I don't think he's had a serious relationship as long as I've known him."

Neal blinked. That wasn't the cautionary warning he'd expected. He stalled. "What makes you think I want serious?"

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Peter's expression was wry. "You're very good at lying about a lot of things, Neal, but your heart has never been one of them."

Neal didn't have an answer for that. He hadn't had a chance to figure out exactly what he wanted from Clinton, but he already knew it was a lot, for a long time. He changed tack. "Maybe Clinton's just been waiting for the right person to come along."

"I hope so," said Peter, nodding. "It's good to see you happy."

"You worry too much," said Neal, refusing to let Peter's pessimism puncture his good mood. "It'll be fine, I promise." But he went back to his desk pondering Peter's analysis.

Neal hadn't fallen for Clinton—"fallen" implied a degree of passivity foreign to Neal's self-image—but he had jumped in with both feet, and Peter was right about the hard and fast part. Well, it was paying off so far. Clinton had switched departments so they could be together—for ten weeks, said a small treacherous voice in the back of Neal's mind; what would happen when the secondment was up? Would Clinton transfer out of White Collar permanently? Could Neal ask that of him?

Neal remembered the smile in Clinton's eyes that morning, their kisses, the sex, all of it as intense and addictive as a drug. The road to happily ever after was rarely smooth, but with memories like that fresh in his mind, it was impossible to believe anything could go wrong. He and Clinton were good together, and if there were speed bumps, Neal would deal with them, whatever it took.


	35. Chapter 35

Clinton didn't have time to revel or worry. He spent the morning at Fischer's desk, surrounded by photos of her family and pets, with his own stuff still in its cardboard box, and worked through the open Missing Persons files for the last six months, checking their financials for activity. It was drudge work, and he knew he'd been lumped with it because he was the new guy, and from White Collar, no less.

It was an open secret that the rest of the New York office resented White Collar's outstanding closure rate, but Clinton thought Kidnapping and Missing Persons weren't a bad lot, despite their suspicion of him. It would just take some time to fit in. And hell, it was worth it. Only seven more hours until he could see Neal again.

Rice came to stand in the door of her office. "Drop everything," she said to the office at large. "Meeting room now."

Clinton raised his eyebrows at the agent at the next desk, Vanessa Greenfield. She was already standing up, reaching for a legal pad and pen as she went.

"Probably a kidnapping," she said, hurrying off.

Clinton locked his computer and followed. There were half a dozen people around the table when he arrived, not counting Rice, who was standing at the front of the room. Two more agents followed Clinton in.

Rice was all business. "Okay, people, listen up. We have a reported kidnapping. The victim's name is Macy Thompson, twenty-four years old, Caucasian, blonde hair, blue eyes, five foot six, resident of Williamsburg. Her boyfriend saw two masked men drag her into a van on the street outside her apartment—he got a partial plate. Her father is the CFO of a financial company that received nearly a billion dollars in TARP, so there's a good chance the abduction is politically or financially motivated."

"Has there been a ransom demand?" asked an agent across the table. She was sharply dressed and focused. Clinton couldn't remember if she was Adams or Patterson.

"Not yet." Rice clapped her hands. "Warren's monitoring the parents' phones. Stevens, Greenfield, you're with me. We're going to interview the parents. Adams, Jepsen, Patterson, Willis, talk to the boyfriend, get Forensics to sweep the scene and the apartment. Stone, Holt and Jones, run the plate, pull traffic cam footage and dig into the victim, the boyfriend and any of their connections. We need—"

She was interrupted by a knock on the door.

It was Warren. "We have a ransom demand to the father's cell."

The tension in the air erupted into movement. "Holt," said Rice, raising her voice to be heard over the bustle, "you guys run the audio, get everything you can. We need details, we need suspects and we need a location. Get moving, people. Let's find Ms. Thompson and bring her home."

Thirty seconds later, the office was empty except for Clinton and Agents Stone and Holt. Holt took charge, and Clinton did as he was told, efficiently and thoroughly. Even though it was effectively a demotion and the circumstances were serious, it was good to be part of a team that was galvanized into action, working to rescue someone. White Collar cases were rarely this urgent.

An hour and a half later, from a combination of eye witness accounts of the abduction, voice analysis and running the partial plate, they had two suspects, Rusty Williams and Evan Foy, both with records of robbery, intimidation and violent assault.

"Neither of them are at their last known address," said Adams, calling in.

Clinton brought up their files on his computer. "Williams and Foy used to work with a guy called Jason Newman," he reported. "He did three years for grand theft and was released on parole six weeks ago." His gaze skated down the screen and caught on the parole details. "Newman was fitted with a GPS tracking anklet on his release."

Rice was striding toward them and overheard. "Good. Adams, take a team to Newman's place of residence. What do we know about the anklet?"

"I hear Agent Jones knows the technology _intimately_ ," said Stone, getting up from his desk and coming over. He was large and loud, with a receding hairline, and his words made Clinton stiffen, his gut twisting into knots.

Holt snickered. Rice ignored the underlying sneer and turned to Clinton. "Well?"

Clinton swallowed his embarrassment. "The GPS is monitored by the US Marshals service," he said evenly. "Tracking data's stored in a database at their office and available online. It's accurate down to the yard. The Marshals control who has access."

"Okay. I'll call the Marshals and get them to hook us up." Rice took a step toward her office. "Cross-check everything we know about these guys, look for any indication of a secure location they might be using. They've thought this through, but they're not professional kidnappers—they will have made mistakes." She turned and left.

Clinton returned his gaze to his computer monitor, taking a moment to collect himself. Everyone knew about him and Neal. They knew, and they felt at liberty to joke about it at his expense. Of course they did: they were law enforcement officers, and they didn't know Neal as a person. To them, he was just another convict, a felon.

Pointless anger and a kind of homesickness for the comfort of the White Collar team clouded Clinton's vision for a few seconds, and then he grimly pulled himself together and brought his attention back to the case. There was work to do and a life in danger. His personal feelings could wait.


	36. Chapter 36

Neal spent the day inventing pointless tasks like devising a creative indexing system for cold cases, based on the degree of talent required to commit the crime and points for style in its execution. Peter summoned him in to consult in a couple of meetings, but they didn't have a big case requiring all hands on deck, and mostly Neal was left to his own devices.

Several times he thought about texting Clinton, but given what Clinton had said about Rice's attitude, Neal decided that distracting him was probably counterproductive. It wasn't long till the end of the work day, when they'd see each other anyway, and Neal could be patient when he had to.

But at ten to six, when Neal was packing up to go home, he got a text message: _Don't know if I'll be able to get away. I'll call when I can. xC_

_Call anytime. xN_

Neal went home and mooched around his apartment for a while until Mozzie showed up and they ate takeout. Then Neal invited June to join them for a game of poker. It wasn't lost on Mozzie or June that Neal was distracted, and they took full advantage: Neal lost one hand to June out of courtesy, and the next by pure accident.

When Mozzie won the next round, June leaned across and patted Neal's arm. "You don't seem yourself tonight, my dear. Is everything all right?"

"It's a Suit," said Mozzie, gathering the cards together and shuffling them.

June arched an elegant eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Neal's mooning over Jones," Mozzie explained. "He's probably preoccupied with mentally designing the perfect seduction scenario."

"You know, Neal didn't come home last night." June had a twinkle in her eye. "Is it possible your information is out of date, Mozzie?"

"Neal and Agent Jo-ones, they've got a thing going o-on," sang Mozzie. He was slightly drunk and horribly off key.

"Moz, I will let you win this hand if you stop singing now," said Neal, trying to look pained but unable to hide his grin. "Yes, I was at Clinton's last night. And yes, it's a thing, and no, I don't know what kind of thing yet." He picked up his cards.

"Romance is wonderful, isn't it?" June leaned forward confidentially. "But do be careful, darling. The thing I've always found with lawmen is that in a crisis, one can never be sure where their loyalty will fall—with you or with the law."

If Mozzie had said it, Neal would have brushed it aside as paranoia, but he respected June's perspective. "I'll be careful."

Mozzie snorted disbelievingly, and Neal diverted them all with a high opening bid, still without having looked at his cards.

June called it a night at ten-thirty and there'd been no word from Clinton, so Neal and Mozzie sat around and talked about old times, including, strangely enough, Kate.

"I may not have said it at the time, but in retrospect, she was a good influence on you." Mozzie drew the cork from a fresh bottle of wine and sniffed it, then poured. "She drove you to greater heights, spurred you to develop your talents."

"She also drove me to turn myself in to the FBI," Neal reminded him.

Mozzie swirled the wine in his glass. "Well, yes, ultimately. But before that, you were really beginning to stretch your wings—"

"Moz," Neal interrupted. "That was my past. I'm not saying I'm going to turn into a completely different person now, but I'm sorry, I can't be your partner in crime anymore. And don't tell me you didn't see this coming, even before Clinton."

"Maybe," said Mozzie. He cocked his head and studied Neal. "I refuse to give up on you."

"Because if you did, you'd have to find somewhere else to sleep." Neal smiled to take the sting out of that. "He's a good guy. I trust him."

"That's what scares me." Mozzie fingered the woven bracelet on his wrist. Neal didn't know its history, but Mozzie always returned to it when questions of loyalty arose. "Just promise me you'll keep my name out of any spontaneous confessional pillow talk."

"I promise," said Neal. "Do you feel better now?"

"Marginally." Mozzie drank some wine. "Now I feel better."

Mozzie retired at midnight, and Neal went to take a shower before bed, balancing his phone on the edge of the bathroom sink just in case. It rang when he was covered in soap, but he answered it anyway, getting shower spray all over the small tiled room and nearly dropping the phone into the toilet. "Clinton?"

"Yeah. I'm outside. Can I come up?"

"Give me two minutes," said Neal. He hung up and got back in the shower to rinse off, feeling flushed and excited despite the hour. He hastily dried and dressed and hurried downstairs to let Clinton in.

It was another warm night. Clinton was leaning against a lamppost, his head bent and his face in shadow. He was wearing the same suit he'd put on that morning, but his tie was gone, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and his jacket was slung over his shoulder. When he saw Neal, he pushed off the lamppost and came up the front steps, taking them two at a time. "Hi."

"Hi." Neal drank in the sight of him, tired and unshaven and sexy as ever. There was tension around his eyes and mouth, and his shoulders were slightly hunched, but what mattered was that he was here. Neal gripped Clinton's shoulder and leaned in to kiss him, meaning it to be a brief welcome but forgetting to stop, because it was so good to have him close again.

It was Clinton who pulled back, but he looked better, most of the tension dispelled. "What is it with you and doorways?"

"It's not the doorway," said Neal, grinning. "Come on." He led the way upstairs to June's other guest room, with its ornate bedstead and heavy drapes. "Mozzie's asleep on my couch," he explained, shutting the bedroom door after them. "We can be alone here. You look like hell."

"We're working a kidnapping." Clinton rubbed his hand over his face. "Still in progress."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Clinton's jaw clenched. "No, I—No."

"When do you have to go back?"

"Six a.m.," said Clinton. He looked at his watch. "Five and a half hours."

"So, shouldn't you be home, getting some sleep?" Neal was torn between wanting to be with him and feeling protective. Then he realized how that might have sounded. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you, but you don't have to—"

Clinton walked right up to him, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, and pulled him hard up against him, and when his mouth took Neal's, Neal closed his eyes and stopped thinking, losing himself in Clinton's embrace. It was obvious Clinton needed this after whatever he'd been through today, and Neal wanted to give him everything he needed, whatever it took. Within seconds, Neal was turned on, aching, and his gut tightened at the unmistakable press of Clinton's erection hard against him.

They were wearing too many clothes. Neal unbuttoned Clinton's shirt quickly, baring his chest. He pushed it off his shoulders, kissing him fiercely, claiming him. It felt like a lifetime since they'd been together.

Clinton stripped Neal's t-shirt over his head and spread his hands across Neal's back as they kissed, and the tension and urgency in his body eased a fraction, shifted, as if simply being here with Neal had satisfied some of whatever was troubling him. But Neal needed more. He urged Clinton toward the bed. The mattress was stripped, the covers folded at the foot of the bed, but Neal didn't care. He pushed Clinton down to sit on the edge of the bed, and Neal folded to his knees, wanting Clinton in his mouth.

But he'd barely closed his lips around Clinton's cock when Clinton pulled him up. "Not this time. I need—"

"Okay," said Neal. "Anything."

Clinton lay down on the unmade bed and tugged Neal to lie with him, and they shoved the rest of their clothes aside and stroked each other, not kissing but watching each other. Neal's orgasm was tight and intense, and Neal struggled to keep his eyes open, to let Clinton see him, but it was too much. He gasped and twisted his head to the side, pressing his forehead to Clinton's arm as he came, wracked with pleasure.

Then Clinton kissed him, deep and passionate, as Neal jacked him to completion. He groaned into Neal's mouth and, afterward, rolled onto his back, dragging Neal half on top of him and took a ragged breath.

Neal grinned and got up on one elbow. "You know, people have been warning me about you," he said, whispering his fingers over Clinton's ribcage and down his sides to make him squirm.

Clinton blinked, his gaze suddenly alert and serious. "Who? What are they saying?"

"Nothing," said Neal. "I was joking. Come here." And he kissed him again, knowing they'd have to get up to make the bed properly, but not willing to move just yet. Not ready to let Clinton go.


	37. Chapter 37

Clinton woke reluctantly at five to the sound of his phone's alarm clock. It took him a second to remember where he was and why he was lying with Neal in a gilt-framed bed, but then it came back to him: June's guest room, late night, the Macy Thompson kidnapping. He groped on the floor for his pants, fished his phone out of his pocket and turned it off.

By then, Neal was stirring. "You have to go."

"Yeah."

"'S a shame."

"You're telling me." Clinton sat up. They hadn't made the bed or even switched off the lamp before falling sleep, and Neal's leg was sticking out from beneath the rumpled satin bedspread, which was slipping sideways at an angle. Clinton watched the green light of Neal's tracker blink on and off for a few moments and then mentally kicked himself: he wasn't going to let Agents Stone and Holt get to him. Screw them and their narrow-minded taunts.

He dressed and bent to kiss Neal goodbye, and Neal's sleepy response filled him with a warmth that stayed with him as he went home to shower, shave and change, and made his way back to the office. He felt refreshed, despite his abbreviated night's rest.

The office was bustling, and within minutes of Clinton's arrival, Rice and Warren called everyone into the meeting room so the agents who'd been on duty overnight could brief the morning shift on developments.

"We're coming up on the twenty-four hour mark," said Rice, "and as always, the risk to the hostage escalates in proportion to the kidnappers' stress levels."

"The deadline for the ransom is noon today," Warren added. "Five million dollars to be dropped at a location yet to be specified."

"Any progress tracking down Jason Newman?" asked Stevens, who had just come back on shift.

"Negative," said Holt. "He called in sick to work yesterday. According to his GPS tracking anklet, he hasn't left his place of residence in the last thirty-six hours, but we've searched his apartment and door-knocked every other place in the building, and there's no sign of him. The Marshals have reset the database and assure us it's secure and uncompromised, so Newman must have found a way to hack his tracker." Most of this information was familiar from the day before, but hearing it set out so plainly made Clinton frown; it simply didn't make sense.

"We have an APB out on Newman and a team watching his apartment in case he returns," said Warren. "No sign of him, Foy or Williams yet."

Rice clapped her hands. "Warren, Greenfield, Holt, you're relieved for the next six hours. Get some sleep. Everybody else, let's get to work."

Clinton went to his desk and skimmed through the online case file to ensure he was fully up to date. Then he got out his phone and called Neal.

It took six rings for Neal to answer. "Hey. Clinton? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," said Clinton. "I need to ask you something about the case."

"The kidnapping."

"Right." Clinton kept his gaze fixed on a photo of Fischer's miniature poodle so he wouldn't see the other agents' reactions if they realized who he was calling. "One of our suspects is on parole and fitted with a tracking anklet, but he's not where the anklet says he is."

"You think he's hacked his GPS," said Neal.

Clinton nodded, though Neal couldn't see him. "That's the theory. Is it possible?"

"No," said Neal. "Believe me, it's not. The closest I've come is when Fowler blacked out the database for a few hours, to frame me for stealing the pink diamond. If the GPS is giving false data, then either your suspect has a key, or he has an accomplice in the Marshals office."

"That's what I thought." Clinton closed his eyes and pictured Neal's face. "Thanks, Neal."

"No problem," said Neal, as if Clinton had called to question him about the weather or art history, and not to effectively ask him if he'd ever tried to hack his anklet. "Good luck."


	38. Chapter 38

Neal dropped June's satin bedspread at the drycleaners on his way to work and arrived at the office feeling energized and pleased with life. As soon as he pushed through the doors, Peter beckoned from his office, using the double-finger point.

Neal dropped his hat on his desk and went up to see what was going on.

"Captain Currency's in town," said Peter, before Neal could ask.

Neal's ears pricked up. "The man responsible for the 2007 Cleveland counterfeiting ring and the Maryland auction house scam in 2009?"

"And these bond forgeries." Peter slid a folder across his desk, and Neal opened it and studied the bonds. They weren't bad, except for the color-matching being slightly off. "He's also implicated in several murders."

"How are we going to get him?"

Diana chose that opportune moment to arrive in Peter's office with a memo and some traffic cam photographs, and she answered Neal's question. "He's in town peddling a new real estate scheme. We need details so we can verify that it's illegal before we move in." She looked at Peter. "Boss, an informant saw him entering the Peacock Club last night and again this morning. He could be making it his base of operations."

Which was how, two hours later, Neal found himself posing as a potential investor and trying to sweet talk his way into the private back parlor of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York.

The woman on the desk wore a burnt sienna Armani suit and a double string of pearls with matching earrings. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight knot. Beyond her, a large guy—well-dressed, but obviously muscle—was guarding the door to the inner sanctum. When Neal made to walk past him, the security guy shook his head and pointed to the woman on the desk.

Neal obediently went back to talk to her. "Good morning," he said, taking off his hat. "I'm meeting a friend in the parlor."

Her response was professional and aloof. "Certainly, sir. Your name?"

Neal tried to catch a glimpse of the book on the desk in front of her, but there were papers lying across it and she was watching him expectantly. Hesitation would be fatal. He put his hat on the edge of the desk and held out his hand. "Nick Halden. My associate Richard Phillips is expecting me."

She didn't accept the handshake. "We don't have a Mr. Phillips on our membership list."

"He's not a member? Are you sure?" Neal looked embarrassed. "I should have known he was just showing off—the Peacock Club is far too classy for a rat like him."

"It happens more often than you'd think." She hadn't smiled yet, but she was being kind, helping him save face.

"Okay, well. Thank you for your time." Neal nodded and retreated half a dozen steps, then stopped and looked around for his hat. He came back to the desk for it.

The woman was running her finger down a list of accounts. She was also wearing a shiny wedding band on her left hand; it looked new.

"Forgot my hat," said Neal, picking it up. He paused, waiting until he had her attention again. "The thing is," he said confidentially, "I'm getting married soon, and I wanted to surprise my fiancé. Rickie Phillips said I could find some interesting investment opportunities here."

"You're getting married?" The woman's expression softened.

"In Boston next month, if we ever find a caterer. We've finally got the photographer locked in." Neal grinned. "You wouldn't believe the amount of drama involved in such a simple decision."

"Well, congratulations," she said warmly.

Neal had made a connection; now he just needed to leverage it. "Thank you." He gave her a dazzling smile. "My fiancé's a currency trader, and I've been trying to find him something unconventional—perhaps real estate." Neal saw the male pronoun register, her eyes widening slightly, and he felt a frisson of excitement: it was the first time he'd come out to anyone, even if it was a cover story—and while he was pretty sure the gamble was going to pay off, the risk kicked his pulse up a little. "You know how hard it is to shop for the man who has everything."

"I know exactly what you mean," said the woman. She leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. Her pearls swung forward, drawing the eye, and Neal tried not to get distracted by her cleavage. "Maybe we can help you with that, after all," she said. "The private parlor is members only unless you have an invitation registered in the guestbook, but I understand Mr. Sterling, one of our newer members, is involved in a property deal, and he's looking for investors. He's here now. I can't let you in, but I could pass him a message, if you'd like."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you so much. Really," said Neal. He was slightly overplaying the gratitude, but even so, less than fifteen minutes later Sterling came out to greet him with a broad smile and a strong if clammy handshake: Captain Currency in the flesh.


	39. Chapter 39

Rice and Warren were at Warren's desk discussing the ransom drop, when Clinton came over. Warren was Rice's second in command, a quiet, experienced man with watchful gray eyes and a military background. He looked up as Clinton approached, but Rice kept talking.

"I've got something," said Clinton, as soon as there was a pause in the discussion. He unrolled his printouts on Warren's desk. "I overlaid Newman's tracking data on the floor plan of his apartment. See here and here?" He pointed to the critical places. "According to the anklet, he's walked through the exterior wall of the building half a dozen times."

"So what?" said Rice. "We already know he's hacked the data." But she was listening, and she frowned as her eyes skated over the printout.

"The anklet isn't hackable," Clinton told her, "and if they were feeding false GPS coordinates into the database, they'd use old data to avoid suspicion."

Warren stood up. "What are you thinking?"

"They're there," said Clinton. "Disused basement or a prohibition tunnel."

Rice looked unconvinced, but Warren nodded. "It's worth a shot."

"Okay," said Rice. "Radio the team on Newman's building. Tell them to approach with caution. If Newman and the hostage are in there, we need to keep this clean. No standoffs."

Clinton hung around, listening to developments. It was frustrating not to be out there, doing whatever he could to help, but even if he'd been permitted, there was no time to waste. Ten minutes later, the report came in: they'd retrieved the hostage and arrested Newman.

"Make sure Newman doesn't communicate with Williams and Foy," said Rice. "They're all going down."

"And who knows, maybe once they're locked up, they'll start jonesing for prison sex too," said Stone from nearby, his loud voice not quite lost in the general hubbub of relief.

Clinton's skin crawled, and his face heated. He shot Stone a contemptuous look but otherwise refused to rise to the bait. Holt was smirking, but the other agents nearby either hadn't heard or didn't care, and Clinton didn't want to make a scene, especially while there were still bad guys to catch.

"Good work, Jones," said Warren, and Clinton tried to focus on that.

Rice's team caught Foy at the ransom drop, and Foy gave them Williams, and then there were just reports and a return to the grind of the missing persons list. The agents who'd been out in the field came back in, and the office settled into its holding pattern, waiting for the next crisis.

Clinton exchanged brief greetings with Greenfield when she returned to the desk next to his, but otherwise, he closed himself off, his pride still smarting from Stone's ugly remarks. The next nine and a half weeks were going to be an endurance test, no doubt about it—and after that, what then?

He was thinking about Neal, about the complications of their situation, when a cup of coffee landed on his desk. He glanced up. It was the female agent in the sharp suit, the one he'd noticed in the briefing the day before. He still couldn't remember if she was Adams or Patterson, but now she was standing right by him, Clinton could tell she was older than he'd assumed, and there was a row of tiny puckers in her earlobe, as if she'd used to wear multiple earrings.

"Uh, thanks," said Clinton, picking up the paper coffee cup. It smelled good.

She cracked the lid from her own cup and took a sip. "Can I give you some advice?"

"I'm kind of busy here." Clinton straightened the missing persons list on his desk. Then he took a breath. That was rude. "Sorry. I'm listening."

Adams or Patterson—he was pretty sure it was Adams—leaned against the side of his desk, cocking her hip, and bent forward slightly. "Forget Stone," she said. "He believes everything he hears on Fox News."

"Really." Clinton pushed his chair back so he could see Adams' face better. "Fox?"

"He almost cried when Glenn Beck left," said Adams wryly. She contemplated her coffee for a moment. "It's not just that it's Caffrey, you know."

Clinton tensed automatically, then made himself relax. He raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"You're the first gay agent we've had in Missing Persons," said Adams, sounding almost apologetic.

"Oh." Clinton absorbed that for a moment, realizing how much he took acceptance for granted, and how much he owed Diana for being staunch and out, confronting people's prejudices so Clinton didn't have to. So he could relax and keep himself to himself, and let people assume whatever they wanted. Well, he was on his own now, and the last couple of days had highlighted his options: Clinton could either fight his battles or cede the moral high ground to a bigot. Rice had already shown she wasn't going to intervene as head of the unit.

His natural reticence made Clinton shrink from the prospect of bickering about his private life at work, but the alternative wasn't really an alternative at all.

"The rest of us aren't so bad," said Adams. She was watching him, and Clinton realized that she was taking sides, just by talking to him. Perhaps he wasn't on his own after all.

"Thanks," said Clinton, meaning it. "Adams, right?"

"Patterson," she said. "Adams is the tech guy."

"Right, sorry." Clinton grimaced, and she grinned.

"That's okay." She drank another mouthful of coffee, and said in a rush, "My brother-in-law was in prison for two and a half years. He's not a bad guy—he was young, made some mistakes. He gets a lot of grief about it, but I think people deserve a second chance, you know? It's wrong to just write them off. And my husband's in SWAT. He says Caffrey's doing good work in White Collar."

"Yeah, he is," said Clinton, thinking of Neal, who put himself on the line over and over. Who was as much a part of the White Collar team as Diana or Clinton or any of the them, badge or no badge. Sure, his alternative was going back to prison, but Neal never seemed reluctant or grudging about it. He'd taken a side.

Patterson smiled. "So, you know. _Nil carborundum illegitimi._ "

Don't let the bastards grind you down. Clinton grinned for the first time that day. It was good to have an ally. "I won't if you won't."

"You've got a deal, Agent Jones." Patterson stood up. "And now, I have some names to run. I'll see you 'round."

"Yeah." Clinton nodded, reluctant to end the conversation, though he had work to do too. He compromised, saying, "Next time, the coffee's on me."

She nodded with a smile and went to her desk on the other side of the office, and Clinton got out his phone to call Neal and see if he had plans that night.


	40. Chapter 40

Neal was still with Captain Currency AKA Sterling, drinking cognac, smoking cigars and discussing property when Clinton called.

"Hey, babe, I'm in a meeting. I'll call you back," Neal said into the phone, and hung up before Clinton could ask what was going on. "Boyfriend," Neal told Sterling. "Actually, he's my fiancé. I want the investment property to be a surprise."

"How romantic," said Sterling. He had a graying mustache and an overly wide bronze tie. In a different era, he'd have worn a monocle, and without it, Neal could see the calculations behind his eyes. "When's the happy day?"

It was another half hour before Neal managed to extricate himself, and Sterling was slimy enough that Neal stepped into the van longing for a shower, or at the least, Purell. There was none around, so Neal settled for passing Sterling's prospectus over to Peter and Diana and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. "The old 'beachfront property in Florida' scam," he said. "It's almost quaint."

Peter took the prospectus and flicked through it, then looked up, eyebrows raised. "Your fiancé, the currency trader?"

Neal grinned. "Who doesn't love a big gay wedding?"

"The entire religious Right," muttered Diana.

Neal angled his hat on his head and didn't bother to hide his smugness. "It worked."

"Is this going to be a thing now?" asked Peter.

Neal evaded the question easily. "Peter, the woman on the desk had just got married. She didn't mind a little harmless flirting, but trust me, she wasn't disappointed when I said I had a boyfriend."

"You said fiancé," said Diana.

Neal shrugged. Same difference.

"And Sterling?" Peter was frowning, but Neal didn't think he really minded. He was just factoring it in, adding it to the list of logistical issues for future undercover work.

"I think he was pretty comfortable with his mark being gay."

"You're gay now?" asked Diana, sounding curious.

"Nick Halden's gay." Neal thought about Clinton. Then he remembered the pearl necklace woman's cleavage. "I'm bisexual. Pretty sure."

Diana nodded, and Peter drew her attention to the prospectus and the case.

When they got back to the office, Neal called Clinton. "Hey, what's up? Any progress with the kidnapping?"

"It's over," said Clinton. "The hostage is safe and we got the guys." The tension from the night before and the phone call that morning was gone from his voice.

"That's great," said Neal.

"Do you have plans tonight?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Let me take you to dinner."

"Sure." Neal wanted to get to know Clinton properly. Maybe if they went out, they could keep their hands off each other long enough to have a conversation—before retreating to one or other of their places and putting their hands wherever they wanted. Neal's mouth went dry at the thought of Clinton's hands on him. He licked his lips. "Where shall I meet you?"

"I'll pick you up at seven-thirty," said Clinton. It sounded unexpectedly formal, but that was okay: Neal could do formal.

"Looking forward to it." Neal hung up and went to get himself a cup of coffee, since he was too wired with anticipation to sit still.

Diana passed him with an armful of case files. She took one look at Neal's expression and shook her head. "Say hi from me."

"Will do," said Neal, cheerfully, and she laughed.

Clinton knocked on Neal's door at seven-thirty on the dot. He was wearing a dark suit and a fawn tie, and he looked smart enough that Neal didn't want to mess him up just yet. "Looking good."

"You too." Clinton gave him a quick soft kiss hello, pulling back before it could turn into anything more.

Neal touched his hand and smiled. "It feels like we're going to the prom. Is this prom night?"

Clinton's lips twitched. "It's a date."

"Okay. So I don't need a corsage, then?"

"No corsage." Clinton didn't explain any further. Neal got the feeling something was going on, but Clinton looked relaxed and pleased to see him, so Neal relaxed too.

They went down to the car and Clinton started driving south.

"Diana says hi," said Neal, watching Clinton's response.

A cloud crossed his face, just for a moment. "Say hi back." He cleared his throat. "How's it going? What are you guys working on?"

"We're taking down Captain Currency." Neal told him about the real estate scam, and then looked around. They were still heading south. "Where are we going?"

"Annisa." Clinton glanced across at him. "I know it's outside your radius. I cleared it with Peter."

"Cool." There was an array of potential landmines there, but Neal decided they could deal with them later. For now, he couldn't deny it felt good to be free of the invisible barrier that hemmed him in every night, and he'd been wanting to try Annisa for months. "The perks of dating an FBI agent. When do I turn into a pumpkin?"

"Eleven." Clinton bit his lower lip, and Neal knew they were thinking along the same lines: by eleven, if not before, they'd be alone together again, very probably naked and horizontal.


	41. Chapter 41

Clinton sat back and let Neal order a bottle of wine for both of them, amused and charmed by the care with which Neal approached the decision. Even sitting here, his vitality was evident. The restaurant was muted and romantic, and the ambience was permeating Clinton's mood, making _him_ muted and romantic, but there was nothing muted about Neal. His eyes were bright as he perused the menu, taking in the brief descriptions of elaborate dishes, and his right hand curled loosely around his wineglass, his thumb stroking up and down the stem, an idle fidget that captured Clinton's attention and made his stomach clench, imagining that same gesture on his arm or, better yet, his thigh.

Neal glanced up and caught Clinton watching him. His mouth softened into an intimate smile, but he just leaned forward a little and asked, "Do you know what you're having?"

"The scallops," said Clinton, leaning in too. They discussed the menu, the wine, the restaurant's reputation and other small talk until the waitress came and took their order. 

Then Neal took a drink from his wineglass and swallowed it with a thoughtful expression, apparently savoring it. He met Clinton's gaze and tilted his head. "So, was the kidnapper hacking his tracking data?"

"Newman. No, he was underground. They broke into an old prohibition tunnel." Clinton sipped his wine and added casually, "Would you, if you could?"

Neal's fingers stilled on the base of his glass, but his smile was still there, still soft. "If you'd asked me a year, even six months ago—but now, no. I don't want to run."

Clinton swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Good. I don't want you to run either."

Neal buttered a bread roll and bit into it. He seemed unfazed by the turn the conversation had taken. "Does the anklet bother you?"

"No." This morning Clinton might have hesitated, but he could say it now, clear and definite. It made him realize he owed Patterson far more than just a cup of coffee. "You?"

"It's not my favorite accessory, but I get by." Neal put down the rest of the roll and dusted crumbs from his fingers. 

Clinton could smell the bread's warm yeasty aroma from where he sat, and his mouth watered from a mix of hunger and desire. He bit his lip. When had he become a guy who couldn't make it through a meal without obsessing about sex? He broke open his own roll, scolding himself, and was taken off-guard by Neal's next remark.

"They know about us, don't they?" Neal was watching him closely. "Kidnapping and Missing Persons."

Clinton put down his butter knife and met Neal's gaze. 

Apparently that was all the answer Neal needed. "Is it bad?"

"It's just one guy. I can handle it."

"Clinton, you don't have to protect me." Neal's mouth twisted with bitter humor, but his voice was light. "I was in prison. Whatever they're saying, I've heard worse."

"I'm their first out gay agent." He saw Neal open his mouth and overrode him. "Listen, there'll always be people who don't think we should do this—"

"Because we're both guys." A slight frown creased Neal's forehead.

"That," said Clinton, "or because I'm FBI and you're a felon. Or because I'm black and you're white." Clinton reached across the table and touched Neal's hand, pale in contrast to his own, and looked up again. "It doesn't matter what they say, because they're wrong. There might be good reasons we shouldn't be together, but if there are, they're not about what we are. They're about who we are." He hesitated, feeling like he'd accidentally strayed into giving an inspirational lecture. He made himself finish. "And what we want."

"How we feel," said Neal. His hand turned under Clinton's, so his thumb could brush across Clinton's knuckles.

"Yeah." Clinton cleared his throat. Neal's frown had cleared away and his eyes were dark. Love rose up in Clinton's chest—big, undeniable, life-changing love. "How we feel."

The waitress brought their appetizers, and they withdrew their hands. When she'd gone, Neal raised his eyebrows at Clinton. "Did you ever practice law?"

"I went directly from Harvard to Quantico. Why do you ask?"

"Because, counsel, you make a compelling case. Juries would have loved you."

Clinton smiled but shook his head. "I'm just calling it like I see it. I don't care what the assholes say."

"George Herbert said, 'Living well is the best revenge.' I think we're doing all right." Neal looked around the restaurant to illustrate his point, then raised his glass.

"Right." Clinton clinked glasses with him. "To living well." 

Gazes locked, they drank. 

Neal leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I know it's uncouth and all, but I'm about five seconds away from saying screw it and dragging you somewhere private."

"Neal." Clinton clamped down on the clamor of his response to Neal's words, doing his best to stifle his awareness of the lean, hot body across from him. He looked down at his plate, at the elegant morsels with their elaborate garnish, and made himself pick up his knife and fork. "We've got all night."

Neal's head bobbed. "Right. Right, sorry."

"Don't apologize."

They ate in silence for a minute or two.

"The lamb is excellent," said Neal, apparently recovered. "Oh, hey, Nick Halden came out to Captain Currency today."

Alarm was an effective dampener for desire. Clinton paused mid sip of wine and put down his glass. "Neal, Captain Currency is dangerous. He's wanted for murder. You do know people get beaten up for being gay, right?" 

"Not at the Peacock Club," said Neal confidently. "At the Peacock Club they just get sold a half million dollar parcel of useless beachfront property." His foot nudged up against Clinton's under the table. "I'm fine. Peter and Diana have my back."

"They'd better," said Clinton, but without much heat. If he trusted anyone with Neal's safety, it was those two.

"Worried about me?" asked Neal, with a grin.

Clinton shook his head, hiding his concerns. "You're Neal Caffrey. You always land on your feet."

"The best of everything." Neal nodded. "It's a matter of personal pride." His tone and smile turned the boast into a compliment, and Clinton laughed under his breath. He put his cares on hold and sat back to enjoy the food and the company, and under the table, the warm pressure of Neal's foot.


	42. Chapter 42

Neal was having a good time, despite his slip, propositioning Clinton over the appetizers. He didn't know what he'd been thinking there—really, he hadn't been thinking at all—but he'd seen Clinton's reaction, the heat in his eyes, and that had taken the sting out of the rain check. Embarrassment passed quickly. Like Clinton said, they had all night.

In the meantime, the restaurant was as good as its reputation claimed, and he was with Clinton, who was thoughtful, attentive and more real than anyone else Neal knew, even Peter. The better Neal got to know him, the more he liked and respected him—he could feel himself falling, and he didn't want to stop.

Neal was peripherally aware of being an object of interest among the other diners. It wasn't something he'd noticed the last time they'd been out in public together, on their fake date, and Neal was used to turning heads, but this was different—swift appraising glances, as if Neal and Clinton's togetherness defined them. It was easy to read approval or disapproval into each reaction. 

Neal shook it off and focused on Clinton and the meal. "What are your plans for the rest of the week?"

It was Wednesday night. Neal figured they'd spend Thursday evening together, assuming no urgent cases came up; he had bowling on Friday, but then it would be the weekend and Neal's calendar was wide open. The prospect of spending whole days and long nights together was alluring. But Clinton was pursing his lips. "I'm busy tomorrow night. I'm having dinner with Aaron and his roommates."

"Aaron," said Neal, slamming back to earth. "The friend who tried to set you up."

"My ex," said Clinton. "He's moving to Portland. It's a goodbye dinner party. I'd invite you, but their apartment's in midtown."

Outside Neal's radius. Neal was conscious of the weight of the tracker on his ankle. And it was too soon to ask Peter for more leniency, especially since Neal was supposed to be playing by the rules this week. "You used to go out?"

"We broke up over the weekend," said Clinton matter-of-factly. "I ended it. And, I mean, it was never serious. We weren't even exclusive."

Neal put the pieces together: Clinton must have broken things off with Aaron before he'd called Neal on Sunday night, even though an open relationship wouldn't have been a barrier to his dating Neal. That meant something. But where did Aaron's imminent departure fit into the picture? And more importantly, were open relationships Clinton's usual MO? Neal had never questioned monogamy with Kate, his only long-term partner to date, but he'd never questioned being straight either, and he didn't want to seem unsophisticated. "Is that what you want?"

"I've pretty much always just gone along with what whoever I was seeing wanted." Clinton poked the last of his kale with his fork for a moment. Then he looked up, his eyes dark and searching, and took a deep breath. "But, no. That's not how I see us."

The intensity of Neal's relief took him by surprise. Being non-exclusive would have been a new experience, but right now he only wanted to be with Clinton, as much and as often as possible. "Okay, good."

Clinton smiled, and Neal wanted him so badly he had to bite his lip so he wouldn't repeat his earlier mistake and proposition Clinton over the dinner table. He was turning into a sex maniac. It was just as well they weren't working together. Neal thought of backing Clinton up against the wall of the surveillance van and having his way with him amid the clutter of tech equipment. He grinned.

Clinton raised his eyebrows in query.

"I'll tell you later."

Clinton accepted that and divided the last of the wine between their glasses. "Aaron's having a going-away party on Saturday night. If you want to come, I can ask Peter."

"I'll ask," said Neal. There'd be no concern about Neal breaking the law if he was with Clinton, and Neal wanted to meet Aaron, even if he wasn't competition anymore, not to mention Clinton's other friends. "Count me in."

"Okay, good." Clinton looked pleased.

They skipped dessert and didn't linger over their meal, and they were back at Clinton's place before ten. Neal followed Clinton inside, keeping his hands in his pockets, determined to show some restraint and at least get past the front door this time.

The apartment had a slightly disheveled look that spoke of Clinton's long work hours over the last few days. A pale yellow tie was slung over the back of an armchair, and there was a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, along with a used coffee mug. Neal didn't care.

Clinton threw his suit jacket on the chair, on top of the tie, and went across the room to turn on the stereo. A symphony by Sibelius curled through the air, until Clinton replaced it with soft rock music that Neal didn't recognize. 

"You like classical?" asked Neal, having difficulty reconciling the Sibelius with the sports, bowling, FBI suits and general down-to-earth solidity of Clinton.

"Sure." Clinton loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. "My sister plays violin with the San Francisco Symphony. That surprise you?"

"I worked as a pianist on a cruiseliner for six months," said Neal, ducking the question. He pulled at the knot of his own tie, and Clinton's gaze grew intent. 

"Let me," he said, coming over to Neal, and Neal let his hands drop and watched Clinton's face while Clinton slid the tie free of his collar, smoothed it and put it aside, and slowly undid Neal's shirt, button after button, his fingers brushing Neal's chest.

Neal's lips parted involuntarily. "Clinton."

And then they were kissing and it was different this time, slow pulsing kisses full of music. Now the urgency was vast and subterranean, a dark welling of desire, and Neal gave himself up to it, to Clinton's hands on the small of his back and the taste of him, the faint scratch of his chin. Neal clasped Clinton's neck, his thumb stroking the underside of Clinton's jaw as they kissed. He could feel Clinton's pulse racing under his palm, echoing his own.

After a long while, when Neal was so turned on and heavy-limbed he was almost stoned with lust, Clinton pulled back a few inches. "I want—"

"Tell me," said Neal, willing to be used however Clinton wanted him.

Clinton dragged his teeth across his lower lip. "I want you inside me," he said. "Fucking me."

It took a split second for the words to register, and then Neal flushed from head to foot and leaned in again helplessly, kissing him long and hard. 

"You're going to have to talk me through it," he said when he was coherent enough to speak, vaguely aware there was more to the process with a guy than there was with a woman. 

"Lots of lube," said Clinton. "Come on." 

He took Neal's hand, and they went into the bedroom and undressed each other, the music spilling through the open doorway, almost turning it into a slow dance. The bed was roughly made. Neal pulled back the covers while Clinton fished in the nightstand drawer for supplies: condoms, lube and a dildo, the latter tapered with a flared base. 

Clinton dropped items onto the bed, and when Neal sat down, the mattress tilted and the lube and dildo rolled toward him. Neal picked up the dildo and tested its smooth purple-and-black marbled silicon with his fingers, wondering where it fit into the picture. 

"It's to stretch me open," said Clinton, sitting beside him, so close their thighs were pressed together. He sounded a little self-conscious, but he was covering pretty well. "Some people use their fingers—I prefer this."

"Got it." Neal leaned against him, welcoming his kiss, profoundly moved. This was a big deal—maybe not for Clinton, maybe he did this all the time, but it was to Neal. He was sensitized all over, hungry for the intimate press of skin on skin. "God, you turn me on."

Clinton made a sound in the back of his throat and tugged Neal down to lie with him, and Neal knew with inexplicable certainty that it wasn't just him: this was a big deal. He ran his hand down Clinton's side, rediscovering the angles of his body, and Clinton hitched his leg up, over Neal's thigh, giving Neal access so he could reach back and brush his fingertips over Clinton's hole.

Clinton's breath hitched. He stretched past Neal, and a second later, he was handing Neal the dildo and clicking open the lube bottle one-handed. The lube went everywhere—on the dildo, Neal's hand and his chest and on the sheets—and Neal breathed a laugh and said, "Was this what you meant by 'lots of lube'?" but he was too absorbed in what they were doing to wait for an answer. He moved the slick, dripping dildo to Clinton's ass, and Clinton helped him guide it into place. Neal pushed gently, and after a few seconds, the resistance gave and it slid in easily until Neal's knuckles bumped against Clinton. Clinton gasped, his eyes falling shut, and Neal kissed him, fucking him slowly with the dildo, in and out, making room for himself to follow.

"Tell me when you're ready," he said, but Clinton was busy swiping his hand through the spilled lube and reaching down to stroke Neal's cock. The blend of sweet sensation and anticipation was heady, and Neal moved the dildo harder and faster, despite meaning to take it slow. 

Eyes shut and forehead furrowed, Clinton clenched his jaw and pushed back to meet Neal's hand, and a fierce tender ache began to build at the base of Neal's spine, mingling with his arousal, making it hard to think.

"Ready," said Clinton. "I'm—Now, Neal." 

Neal let the dildo slip free and tossed it aside, peripherally aware of it thudding to the floor. He pulled Clinton close, trapping Clinton's hand between them, and kissed him hard, and then Clinton rolled onto his back and Neal disengaged long enough to put on a condom. 

He knelt between Clinton's bent legs, and feasted his eyes on him, his hard cock and gorgeous body, the sweat trails and smears of lube on his chest and belly, gleaming in the low light. "Do it," said Clinton, his voice hoarse and urgent. 

"Yeah, I'm—I've got you." Neal lifted Clinton's hips up almost into his lap and eased into Clinton's ass. Even after the dildo, it was a tight fit, and Neal took it as slow as he could, but the music was back in his head and Clinton was spread out in front of him, and Neal wanted this more than he'd wanted anything in as long as he could remember. And from the restless movements of Clinton's hips, he didn't want to hold back either. Neal bent forward, leaning against the back of Clinton's thighs, swore and thrust in deep, his hand braced against the mattress for balance. Clinton grabbed his wrist tight, fusing them together, urging him on.

Neal's hair fell into his eyes, and he shook it back impatiently and fucked Clinton, made love to him, pushing in over and over, letting it build and build. After a while, Clinton wrapped his hand around his cock and started jacking himself in time with Neal and the music. He was biting his lip and Neal wanted to kiss him, but he couldn't reach from this angle, and the pleasure was about to carry him away anyway, turn him around and wring him out, and yeah, there, _there_ —

Clinton started coming between them in short spurts, and Neal locked gazes with him and let go, let himself come deep inside Clinton, in tremors that shook him all the way through and left him dizzy and breathless and full of nameless emotion. He pulled out carefully and flopped down beside Clinton, too desperate to hold and kiss him to bother dealing with the condom just yet.


	43. Chapter 43

Clinton straightened his legs, ignoring the aches and stiffness from being folded nearly in half and well-fucked. His pulse was still racing, and he didn't get a chance to catch his breath before Neal was pulling him onto his side, kissing him, his hands tight on Clinton's back. 

There was none of the casual post-sex languor of the night before—if anything, tonight the sex seemed to have made Neal's kisses more passionate, and that struck a chord in Clinton, love warming him like sunlight on his face. He swallowed the words though—a verbal declaration would be too much, too soon—and tried instead to express how he felt with his hands and mouth.

The CD ended, music trailing off into silence, and Neal cupped the side of Clinton's head, fingers hot against his scalp, and pulled away slightly. "I should get rid of this."

It took a moment for Clinton to catch on. The condom. Right. He passed Neal a handful of tissues and watched as Neal took them and sat up, turning away and moving to the edge of the bed. The graceful curve of his spine. He was only a couple of feet away, but it felt too far. Clinton told himself to get a grip and sat up himself. He was a mess and so was the bed. "Want a shower?"

"Yeah." Neal disposed of the condom and turned back to him. His mouth was soft, lips curving, and his eyes were warm and bright. "You going to join me?"

"If I can still stand up," joked Clinton.

He found clean towels and they showered, kissing under the spray and soaping each other, elbows bumping against the glass walls. Clinton was hard again by the time they were done, and Neal wasn't far off, but Clinton was also exhausted and it was nearly midnight, so he just hung up the towels to dry and went to dig a clean set of sheets out of the linen closet.

Neal helped make the bed. The quiet domesticity of it felt incongruous after the brain-melting sex, and it made Clinton warm inside, as well as giving him the opportunity to tease Neal for his crisp, efficient hospital corners. 

"It's like origami," said Neal with a grin. "And okay, I may have gone undercover as a hospital orderly once or twice."

"Undercover. Right." Clinton shook his head, but he grinned too. Impersonating hospital staff was almost a joke compared to some of Neal's past misdemeanors; at least he hadn't claimed to be a surgeon.

They slid between the cool cotton sheets together. Clinton moved up behind Neal and wrapped his arms around him, his shin nudging against the tracker. He kissed the side of Neal's neck under his ear, and Neal twisted to meet his mouth. Then they slept.

Waking up together the next morning might have been a self-indulgent extension of their date if Clinton had remembered to set his alarm. As it was, they slept till after eight, and there was just a mad scramble to get dressed and out the door. 

"I'll see you tomorrow night," said Clinton as they parted on the sidewalk, him for the office, Neal to go home for a change of clothes. 

"After bowling." Neal kissed him quickly and hailed a passing cab. 

So Clinton went to work alone, feeling happy, well-laid and optimistic, prepared for pretty much anything. Even the email from Isabel in his inbox didn't throw him. _Hey CJ, Remember when you called me in the middle of the night and I said you should email me sometime? I meant sometime this year. Jimmy gets back in a couple of weeks. You still want to get together with us for dinner?_

Clinton read the message through twice, then replied. _Of course. How about we convene in the city. There's someone I want you guys to meet. Thanks for the other night, Is._

He stared at the screen after he clicked Send. First Aaron, now Isabel. Maybe it was weird to introduce Neal to his exes so soon, but it felt right, and Neal was Neal. He could fit in anywhere. He'd handle it fine.

Clinton gathered together Anne-Marie Fischer's photos and knickknacks and put them safely in the bottom drawer of the desk. He took some of his own personal things out of the box and arranged them on the desk—the photo of him, Peter and Diana from a few years back, another of his parents, a couple of executive toys that various people had given him as gifts over the years, and Neal's origami butterfly. Clinton was going to be here another nine weeks; he might as well settle in.

Then he picked up the latest missing person files with a sigh and resumed the repetitive task of running financials.


	44. Chapter 44

Neal arrived home whistling. He only had a few minutes to change and he'd still be late for work, but he didn't regret a thing. He was in love, and it felt great. He went into the walk-in closet that he still thought of as Byron's and changed swiftly—underwear, suit and shirt, socks and shoes. 

He picked out one of his favorite ties, a slim dove-gray brocade, and as he tied it, he considered which of his suits he'd move to Clinton's place, if and when Clinton granted him closet space. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but he didn't think so. They were going to last. And all this rushing around in the morning was inconvenient at best. 

He went back to his room to select a hat and found Mozzie sitting at the dining table looking serious. "We have a problem."

Neal chose a hat and made for the door. "There's no problem, and I don't need an intervention. I'm late for work."

But before he could leave, June arrived carrying a tray of coffee, and she looked equally grave. "Did you tell him?" she asked Mozzie.

Neal took off his hat and dropped it on the sideboard in capitulation. He pulled out a chair for June and sat down across from Mozzie. "Tell me what?"

Mozzie was fidgeting with a jeweler's screwdriver, but he set it aside. "Remember how I asked you to forge authentication documents for the clock I sold to the Turkish gentleman?"

Neal sighed. "I told you, Moz, I can't break the law this week. I can't even bend it. I'm sorry."

"The Turkish gentleman suspects the clock is a forgery," said Mozzie, ignoring his interjection.

"Is it?"

"Of course. That's not the point. When I didn't come through with the documents, he put a tail on me. A very skilled tail—" Mozzie stood up and started pacing. 

"—who followed him here," said June, pouring the coffee, "and threatened to make trouble."

Neal sat up straight. "Here? You saw him?"

"This is all my fault," said Mozzie, looking agitated. "I don't know how I could have missed the tail. I must be off my game. Perhaps I need a new glasses prescription."

"Well, it's done now," said Neal, frowning. Even a hint of risk to June was unacceptable. They'd have to deal with it. "Can we set the FBI on the Turkish—What's his name, anyway?"

"Hasan Tilki," said Mozzie. He took a bottle of wine from the wine rack, a glass from the kitchenette and sat down at the table again. "And no, he's connected. It would be like cutting a head off the Hydra."

"Two more spring up in its place," translated Neal. He plucked the bottle from Mozzie's hands before he could open it, and set it aside. "Wait, there's a Turkish mob?"

"The _mob_ mob," said Mozzie. "He's an entrepreneur like you and I. He just happens to have—" He hesitated, looking distraught.

"He has friends," June finished. "As I can attest." Now that the three of them were working on the problem, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Neal smiled at her reassuringly anyway.

"So what's the plan?" he asked Mozzie. "Can you give Tilki his money back?"

"It's an eighteenth century Morbier that once belonged to Marie Antoinette and was taken as a trophy by the French revolutionaries, possibly even Robespierre himself," said Mozzie, gesturing wildly. "Tilki already has a buyer lined up. I don't think he's going to settle for a few thousand—" He caught Neal's eye and corrected himself. "Several tens of thousands of dollars."

"Several?" said June.

"Five," said Mozzie. "And a steal at twice the price."

"Maybe if it was genuine," said Neal. "So you need to acquire the authentication documents from the original owner and give them to Tilki." He sat back and drank his coffee, relieved. This was a plan that didn't have to involve him directly. "Tilki will call off the dogs and everyone's happy."

"We can't," said Mozzie. "The owner of the original clock is Lawrence Myers, the antiques dealer. He keeps his documents in a safe deposit box. Also, the Turkish gentleman's suspicions have been raised. He's got people watching me. And they threatened June." His voice crescendoed in panic, and he looked about five seconds away from hyperventilating. "You have to help, Neal."

"I'm helping," said Neal. "But I still think taking it to the Feds might be our best option. Or do you seriously expect me to break into a bank vault with a GPS tracker on my ankle?"

"That won't be necessary," said June. "I have an idea."

Neal exchanged glances with Mozzie, but they stayed silent and heard her out. 

"How does this sound: Mozzie informs the Turkish gentleman that Myers is running an insurance scam and needs to retain the original document, but that he can provide a certified copy. That will explain the delay." She held up two opera tickets. "We arrange for Myers to attend a performance of The Magic Flute tonight at the Met. Mozzie will be in the foyer with the Turkish gentleman, where Myers will be seen to provide a document to a courier. The courier will switch out the papers in transit and deliver the certified copy to Mozzie and Mr. Tilki. Everyone goes home happy."

" _Vive la révolution!_ " said Mozzie.

Neal grinned at June, despite everything. "You know, you have the mind of a master criminal."

"It's what Byron would have done," said June modestly, picking up her coffee cup.

"Neal's right," said Mozzie. "I may have to propose marriage after all this is over." He reached past Neal for the wine bottle, but Neal moved it further away. Mozzie sighed and sat back in his seat. "All right, so we need a certified copy of the authentication document—"

"Make the copy," said June. "I can arrange to have it certified."

Mozzie gave her a small bow. "Myers needs to receive the tickets along with a form to be returned to the courier at the performance. And we need a courier." Mozzie looked at Neal. "Good thing the Met's inside your radius."

Neal winced. He couldn't leave Mozzie and June in the lurch, but he'd promised Peter, and if Clinton found out— Neal swallowed. Clinton couldn't know about any of this. "Can't we get Alex to do it?"

"Alex is in Barcelona chasing a Goya," said Mozzie. "And before you ask, Myers knows me and—let's just say there's antipathy on both sides."

"I can do it," said June.

"No," said Neal. Forging a document, defrauding a fence. It was all in a day's work, right? And Peter had told Neal to do the best he could about the bet, not to tie himself into knots. Surely even Peter would understand that when it was a matter of protecting June, Neal had no choice. "No, I'll do it. Moz, have the opera tickets delivered. I'll meet you here at lunchtime to draw up the authentication document." He stood up, put the bottle back in the wine rack and picked up his hat. "And now, I really have to go. I'm late for work."


	45. Chapter 45

Clinton was about to call Neal and see if he was free for lunch when the endless grind of checking financials actually turned something up: there was a hit on the credit card of Daniel Reiner, business manager and father of one, who'd been reported missing by his wife five weeks earlier. Clinton printed out the details and took that and the file to Rice.

"Okay," she said, barely looking up. "Get Stone and Patterson to follow up."

Clinton bit back a protest. If Neal could go a week doing what he was told without complaining, so could he, and if Rice wanted to treat him like a junior agent, well, that was her loss.

He took the file to Patterson's desk. "Rice wants you and Agent Stone to check this out."

Patterson tucked a wisp of brown hair behind her ear and scanned the printout. "Twenty-three dollar purchase at H&M. It could be something."

"Maybe he ran out of clean underwear," said Clinton. He was about to return to his desk, but Patterson stopped him with a look.

"You know, you look like you need to get out of the office," she said, widening her eyes the way Neal did when he was trying to appear innocent. It made Clinton grin.

"Funny," he said, "you look like you don't want to spend the afternoon alone with Stone."

"You got me." Patterson made a face and stood up. "I'm going to ask Rice if you can ride along." She opened the file and leafed through it. "There you go, Reiner was a business manager with a gambling addiction—that practically makes it a white collar crime. Your area of expertise. Maybe he was embezzling."

"Hey, I'm happy to help if you can clear it with Rice," said Clinton, "but let's wait for some evidence before we convict the guy."

"Party pooper," said Patterson, and went off to make her case. 

Five minutes later, she and Stone stopped by Clinton's desk. 

"Come on," said Patterson.

Stone gave him a scornful look, and when they got to the FBI parking garage, he jingled the keys and said, "As the only real man here, I'm driving."

"I think he means the only real Neanderthal," Patterson told Clinton. She climbed into the back and left him to ride shotgun. 

"What do we know about this guy?" asked Stone. He gunned the engine at the lights, and when Patterson read the salient details out of the file, he shrugged. "Calling it a gambling _addiction_ is such bull. He sounds like a loser."

"You're all heart," said Clinton, but it was kind of funny now, with Patterson on his side and the sun shining, and things so good with Neal. He put on his sunglasses and stretched out his legs, glad to be out from behind his desk.

Stone shot him a sideways glance. "So, do you like getting your hands dirty in Kidnapping, or is it messing up your manicure? I know what you White Collar guys are like."

"I guess you know everything," said Clinton. 

"I know I'm not staying in Kidnapping," said Stone. "I applied for a post in Counter-Terrorism. Someone's got to stop America getting fucked up the ass by Al Qaeda."

His phrasing struck a nerve, but Clinton refused to show it. Living well was the best revenge. "Good luck with that. Counter-Terrorism's loss would be Kidnapping and Missing Persons' gain."

"You got that backwards," said Stone, pulling off the freeway at Queens.

"No, he didn't," said Patterson from the back seat. "Stop being a dick."

"How was I being a dick?" said Stone. "Or are you saying I have to be politically correct about terrorists now, so I don't hurt their sensitive little feelings?"

"Jesus, Stone," said Patterson, "you just compared gay sex with terrorism."

Stone rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Gloria, it's a figure of speech. Am I being a dick to straights if I say 'we're screwed'?"

"One, straight people aren't a marginalized minority," said Patterson, her voice rising. "Two, 'screwed' isn't specific to straight people, and three, 'we're screwed' is a damned sight less graphic than 'fucked up the ass.'" Clinton twisted to catch her eye and shook his head, trying to convey sympathy as well as the futility of the argument. It would take more than a car ride to pry Stone's mind open. She sighed and rubbed her face. "Ah, just forget it."

Stone shook his head, as impervious as Kevlar, and pulled over onto a loading zone across the street from the mall where Reiner had used his credit card. "We're from New York City. I don't get how you can call gays marginalized in New York."

"There's a lot of things you don't get. Find a primer." Patterson released her seatbelt. "Jones and I can handle this. You wait here."

"Yes, sir." Stone sat back and flicked on a talk radio station, and Patterson covered her eyes in emphatic despair for a moment, before accompanying Clinton into the mall. 

"I can't tell if he's deliberately offensive or just stupid," she said. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"He's not stupid, but we're the last people he'd listen to," said Clinton. "Reasoning with him is a waste of breath." He put his frustration aside as they tracked down the cashier who'd transacted Reiner's purchases the previous day.

Her name was Kacey, and she had a cloud of short dark hair and wore too much makeup. She looked about sixteen. "Yeah, I remember him," she said when they showed her the photo. "He smelled really bad, like he hadn't showered in a week. Is he in trouble?"

"Not as far as we know," said Patterson. "Did he seem like he might be? Was he nervous or agitated?"

"Not really. I just thought since you're FBI."

"Did he have a beard when you saw him?" asked Clinton.

"No." Kacey frowned. "That's weird, huh? Dirty but shaved."

"He's still holding onto his identity," said Patterson. "I know this is a long shot, but he didn't mention anything about where he's living?"

Kacey shook her head again. "I don't think so. Just the weather."

"Okay, thanks," said Patterson. She and Clinton moved a few feet away, and she said under her breath, "We can cruise the surrounding neighborhoods for any sign of his vehicle, but I need five minutes before I get back in the car with Stone or I'm going to rupture something."

"Take your time," said Clinton.

"Oh, hey," called Kacey from behind them. "That guy you were asking about? I just remembered he signed up for a discount card. The form will be upstairs in accounts. He'll have written his address on that."

"Thanks," said Clinton with a smile. "We'll check it out."

Patterson grinned. "A lead and a reprieve." They went to find the manager.


	46. Chapter 46

"Neal." Peter came over to Neal's desk after lunch, while Neal was still surreptitiously trying to rub a smudge of printers' ink off his thumbnail and a few lines from around his cuticles. "Neal," said Peter, "we need to talk about tonight."

"Tonight," repeated Neal, forcing his expression to stay neutral and his hands to keep moving. Peter couldn't possibly know about Tilki and Myers and the Morbier clock. Even so, a twist of guilt formed in Neal's stomach.

Peter tapped the edge of a file folder against Neal's desk. "Sterling likes to do business outside of business hours. I've got a hunch he's going to call tonight."

"Right," said Neal. He stuffed his ink-smeared handkerchief into his pocket. "Captain Currency."

"I'm going to get someone to babysit the phone number you gave him. When he calls, we'll call you." Peter crossed his arms. "We'll let it go to voicemail. I want to be there when you talk to him."

"You're not worried he'll get tipped off if I don't answer?"

Peter shook his head. "You're having dinner with your future mother-in-law tonight. She doesn't allow phones at the table." 

"She's strict like that," said Neal, playing along. "Old school."

Peter grinned, then tilted his head. "What are you really doing tonight? I might need you to come in at a moment's notice."

"Moz and I are going to the opera," said Neal without hesitation.

"Okay, then—" Peter stopped. "The opera with Mozzie?"

"June has spare tickets, and Clinton has other plans."

"He does, huh?" Peter leaned against Neal's desk, clearly switching gears from work logistics to gossip.

Neal recalled the concerns he'd expressed about Clinton's not taking the relationship seriously. "Not like that. It's going well." He closed his eyes for a second, remembering waking up that morning. "It's going great."

Peter held up his hand to stop any details Neal might be in the mood to share, but his smile was genuine, and his tone wry. "I noticed. Just try not to let it affect your punctuality, okay? I'd rather not have to explain this all to the brass. It could adversely affect Jones' prospects."

Neal frowned. "We're not breaking any rules."

"I know, I know. Don't worry, I'm doing everything in my power to shield him, but you both need to be on your best behavior. To prove that he's a good influence instead of you being a bad one." Peter's expression turned earnest. "No slip-ups, Neal. And no more nine-thirty starts or extended lunch breaks."

"Got it," said Neal, hiding his discomfort. The stakes for tonight were higher than he'd realized. Perhaps he should just tell, get Peter's official sanction. "Peter—"

Peter was starting to move away. He turned back. "Yeah?"

But years of secrecy had formed habits more indelible than ink, and there was no way to confess without incriminating Mozzie. "Nothing," said Neal. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said Peter. "And remember, keep your phone close tonight."

Neal held up his phone. "I'll put it on silent. I can slip out if you need me."

Peter nodded, his attention already moved on to the next task, and walked away, and Neal watched him go with mixed emotions.

Peter hadn't seemed to notice anything was off. He hadn't asked about the ink stains or Neal's long lunch, or questioned Neal's willingness to walk out in the middle of a performance at the Met. He was attributing any and all irregularities to Neal's new relationship and seemed to trust absolutely that Neal would keep his word this time. It was, after all, a gentleman's bet. But for Neal, the trust was both a balm and a source of bitterness, and the knowledge he was going to betray it was like a knife. 

He pictured June and Mozzie in his mind's eye: he had to protect them, which meant he didn't have any choice in the matter, so there was no point worrying about it. He poked at his in-tray, looking for something to keep himself busy, to while away the hours until he could leave.


	47. Chapter 47

Clinton and the others found Reiner at a campground a couple of miles from the mall, sitting in a camping chair next to a Chevy full of scrunched-up fast-food wrappers. He was reading a book of Calvin and Hobbes comics with a torn cover, and there was half a bottle of cheap whisky at his side. Clean-shaven or not, he looked like a man who'd hit bottom and was trying to lose himself. 

Stone killed the engine, and Patterson and Clinton got out of the car. "Daniel Reiner?" said Patterson, keeping her voice cheerful and non-confrontational. "Gloria Patterson, FBI. This is Agent Jones."

"I didn't do anything." Reiner dropped his comic book and sprang unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled backwards until he bumped into the side of his car. 

"We're not here to arrest you," said Patterson. "Your wife reported you missing."

Reiner swayed as the words registered, his face tightening with emotion. "I screwed up big time," he blurted.

"No kidding," said Stone, through the open car window. 

Clinton glared at him. Reiner was still watching Patterson and didn't seem to have heard. Clinton didn't know if he was seeing her or his wife, but some combination of alcohol, loneliness and guilt was loosening his tongue. "I lost our savings. I lost my job, everything." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'm done. I'm through. Can't look her in the eye and see how much I've let her down, not again. It'd kill me. She'd kill me."

"You used your credit card," said Stone. "You wanted us to find you."

"Shut up, Stone," growled Clinton under his breath.

"No," said Reiner. "It was an accident. It was a mistake. I didn't know you were looking for me, I just—God, another screw-up in a long line of screw-ups." 

His voice was raised in despair, and a gray-haired angular woman poked her head out of a nearby RV. Clinton waved her away, and she went back inside, shutting the door with a thump.

Reiner was still talking. "It doesn't matter—in a couple of days I'm going west. I'm going to California to start over. I'm going to get it right this time. And then when I've got it all together, then I'll call Yvonne and she'll listen, she'll want to talk."

"Yvonne's worried about you now," said Patterson. "Your daughter, Rachael—she misses you, Daniel."

"You don't understand! I've got nothing left to give her. Nothing, man." Reiner's face crumpled as if he were about to cry. "She's better off without me."

"What gives you the right to decide that for her?" said Clinton. He felt like they were talking Reiner down from a ledge, but there was no use sugar-coating what he'd done. "You took her savings and now you're taking away her choice? That's one thing you can give back to her right now."

"You don't know what it's like." Reiner swiped at his eyes. "You don't know anything. She said if I fucked up again, not to bother coming home. Ever." He turned his head away. "She never wants to see me again."

"People say a lot of things they don't mean," said Patterson. "She called us, remember. Yvonne called us."

"I don't—" Reiner took a shuddering breath and faced them again, red-eyed and miserable. "It's not that easy."

"Listen, pal, we can't make you do anything," said Stone from the car. Clinton tensed, but Stone ignored his glare. "But if you want my advice, give her a chance to forgive you before you disappear from her life."

Clinton almost did a double take. He glanced at Patterson, but she was watching Reiner. "He's right," she said. "At least talk to her."

"I don't—" Reiner looked pleadingly at them for a long moment, then slumped. "Okay. Okay, I'll talk to her."

Patterson stepped in and patted him on the arm. "Call Yvonne now, talk to her, and we can close the case and leave you both to get on with your lives."

"Okay, I'll do it." Reiner opened his car door, releasing a wave of stale food odor. He leaned in and rummaged around in the back, emerging a minute later with a cellphone. He turned it on, and a few seconds later it chirped with new messages. Clinton and Patterson watched Reiner move to the front of the car, a few feet further away, and make the call. 

Patterson had her fingers crossed at her side, where Stone couldn't see.

But Stone wasn't paying attention anyway. He'd switched on talk radio again and was leaning back against the car seat headrest. When Clinton sent him an exasperated look he just shrugged. "Bet she takes him back. You'd be amazed how many women go for losers."

A minute or two later, Reiner came over to them, smiling. "She said she misses me. She wants to come with me to California. Thanks so much, you guys. Thank you. You don't know what this means to us."

Clinton and Patterson exchanged glances, and Clinton shook his head. Reiner hadn't made the call; he was faking.

"That's great," Patterson told Reiner. "Congratulations. Just hang on a minute." She got the file from the car, flipped it open and made a call, keeping her voice down. 

"What's she doing?" Reiner asked Clinton.

"She's closing the case," said Clinton. "Standard procedure. That's good news about you and Yvonne."

Patterson asked a quiet question into the phone and then turned and tossed her phone to Reiner, who caught it automatically. "It's for you," said Patterson. "It's Yvonne."

Guilt and then fear flashed across Reiner's face, but he brought the phone to his ear. "Baby?" He took a deep breath. "Yeah, it's me. Yeah. I'm sorry."


	48. Chapter 48

Neal was leafing through a document forgery case from 2008 when his phone rang. He answered, glancing around to check no one was within earshot. "Hey, Moz, what's up?"

"We have a problem."

"You need a new line. Seriously."

"Ha ha."

Neal sighed under his breath. "What is it now?"

"The courier delivered the tickets, but Myers isn't going to use them."

"You know this how?"

"June planted a bug in Myers' showroom so we could monitor him."

"You bugged Myers' showroom." Neal was torn between concern and being impressed by Mozzie and June's thoroughness.

"The bug is in a Queen Anne English mulberry bureau, right beside the showroom counter," said Mozzie. "We had to be sure the plan was working, and it's just as well we did, because it isn't."

"And you're sure that's what Myers said?" 

"He told his assistant that he doesn't care for Mozart, and he'll be dining at La Belle as planned." Mozzie sounded indignant. "I told you he was an uncultured toad. Who gets free opera tickets and doesn't use them?"

"Give me his number and the name of his arch rival," said Neal. "I'll deal with it."

Mozzie supplied the information and Neal committed it to memory. "What are you going to do?" asked Mozzie.

"I'm going to talk to him. Who did you send the tickets from?"

"Weatherby's Auction House. Neal, I've already told Tilki that Myers will be at the Met tonight. Tilki's meeting me there."

"Relax," said Neal. "I've got it covered." He hung up. Mozzie had always been excitable, but he was starting to sound like he was losing his nerve. Either that, or he was taking advantage of the situation to maneuver Neal into exercising his criminal talents. If that were his secondary aim, it was working better than Neal cared to admit. 

Peter was at his desk, engrossed in work. Diana was talking to some of the other agents, probably briefing them about the IP case she was working. No one was paying any attention to Neal. He stood up and went through the file stacks to the other end of the floor, where he found a secluded corner next to a window onto an interrogation room. He called Myers.

A woman answered the phone. "Lawrence Myers Antiques." 

"Yes, good day," said Neal, assuming a British accent. "Is Mr. Myers there, by any chance?"

"Who may I say is calling?"

"This is Nicholas Candlewood from Weatherby's Auction House." Neal waited until Myers came on the line, and injected more pomposity into his voice. "Mr. Myers, you received two opera tickets from us this morning? I'm afraid there's been a bit of a mix-up in the back office. The tickets were supposed to go to Letitia O'Sullivan in recognition of her outstanding sales through Weatherby's last month. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but we're going to need to retrieve the tickets."

"O'Sullivan? The envelope was addressed to me," said Myers. "The tickets are mine."

"As I said, there was a mix-up," said Neal. "I'm sure you understand. I'll send a courier to pick up the tickets post haste."

"I don't understand anything," said Myers, stubbornly. "I've already made plans to attend the opera. My wife is looking forward to it—she loves Mozart. You'll have to find other tickets for O'Sullivan."

He was playing right into Neal's hands. Neal amped up the British stuffiness even more to seal the deal. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir. Tonight's performance is sold out, and the National Antique and Art Dealers Association of America is sending a reporter to interview Ms O'Sullivan during the intermission for a profile in their quarterly online newsletter. Very high profile. So you see how difficult it would be to reschedule around Ms O'Sullivan's other commitments."

"Well, that's too bad," said Myers, "but it's not my problem. If the NAADAA reporter wants to interview someone, they can interview me."

"But sir, please—"

"The tickets are mine and I intend to use them," said Myers. "And you can tell O'Sullivan that with my _warmest_ regards." He hung up.

Neal smiled to himself and went back to his desk. A few minutes later, he got a text from Mozzie: _Success! Operation Turkish Delight is go._

Neal called him. "You realize you're going to have to anonymously fund an advertisement for Myers on the National Antique and Art Dealers Association of America website."

"Neal!" said Mozzie, outraged, but Neal refused to apologize. Let that teach Mozzie to try to pull his strings.

"I was working to a deadline," he said. "If you want to cover your tracks, do it. It's the price of success." He looked up. Peter was beckoning the team into the conference room. "I've got to go. I'll see you at the Met tonight." He slid his phone into his pocket and went to hear the latest intel on Captain Currency.


	49. Chapter 49

Clinton switched off his computer at a quarter to six and slung his suit jacket over his shoulder. He had just over an hour until Aaron's dinner party—that was barely time to go home, shower and change—but he couldn't help thinking about Neal, about finding him and stealing a few moments alone to touch and kiss him. His blood thrummed in his veins at the thought of it. He took out his phone as he waited by the elevators.

He should resist. There was no time for romantic impulses, and they'd see each other tomorrow after the White Collar unit had finished bowling practice. Neal was probably already at June's. He really should resist.

He was about to dial anyway, if only to hear Neal's voice, when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, and there in the crush of a dozen people, some familiar from SWAT or busts or when Clinton had liaised with other units, some strangers, and all of them fading into insignificance—there in the back corner was Neal.

He was talking to Hughes, chatting politely about whatever case the team was working, but when Clinton stepped into the small space at the front of the car, their eyes met. Clinton's body jolted with—it felt like recognition on a cellular level, like aligning to a powerful magnet. The memory of the intimacy they'd shared the night before mingled with prickly self-consciousness. This was the risk of the office affair, this clash of private and professional feelings. Clinton felt his face heat. "Hey," he said to Neal past the cluster of people. Casual. Cool. To Hughes, he added, "Hello, sir."

"Jones," replied Hughes with a nod.

Neal winked.

Clinton couldn't tell if Hughes had heard the news, but elevator convention dictated everyone face forward, so he turned away and slid his phone into his pocket. Through the conversations of the other passengers, he could hear the murmur of Neal's voice, but not what he was saying. The ride to the lobby was interminable. 

Clinton disembarked and moved aside while everyone else spilled out and headed for the exit, singly or in groups. No Neal. He turned back to the elevator and found Neal leaning there, looking around for him, his body blocking the door sensors. 

That body. 

It was nearly six, the end of the working day. No one was riding up into the building. They could have the elevator to themselves. Neal raised his eyebrows in mute invitation, and Clinton walked up to him and backed him inside. The doors slid together; the elevator started to climb. Clinton let his jacket drop to the floor as he closed the space between them. 

Neal's mouth was hot and urgent, kissing back hungrily, making Clinton's knees weak. Only the knowledge of where they were stopped Clinton from taking it further. They broke off at the same time, both breathing hard. "Security cameras," said Clinton. "We can't."

"I know." Neal caught his hand and squeezed. "I know. Any second now, someone's going to—"

As he said it, the elevator slowed its ascent. The doors began to open on the twenty-seventh floor, and Neal dropped Clinton's hand and pressed the button for twenty-two. Hannah Urlich from HR stepped aboard.

Hannah gave them a polite, oblivious smile and turned her attention to her phone. She seemed to be texting or tweeting; Clinton only hoped they weren't the subject of her message. He scooped his jacket off the floor with as much savoir-faire as he could muster and held it in front of him to hide the fact that he was half hard. Two more stops and three more passengers, and they reached floor twenty-two. 

"Pritchard said the Gomez files got left behind when everything else was shifted," said Neal, leading Clinton onto the darkened twenty-second floor. The elevator doors shut behind them.

They left the lights off, and in the gloom it was like a ghost town: no desks, no chairs or phones. The irregular shapes of table saws and other industrial tools cluttered the area just inside the glass double doors. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were still in place, but they were gap-toothed, mostly empty. 

"Where's Organized Crime?" asked Clinton.

"Temporarily relocated to nineteen. They're renovating the meeting rooms up here, and construction stops at five-thirty." Neal's fingers hooked through his, and Neal threaded between cubicle partitions and stacks of drywall as if he'd memorized the route. "The advantage," he said over his shoulder to Clinton, "is less security. There's a camera blindspot over here."

"What? How do you know?" Clinton stumbled over an electrical cable and pulled on Neal's arm, forcing him to halt. "Neal?"

"I keep tabs," said Neal. "It's just habit."

"Habit." Clinton was torn between doubt and a desire so intense he was having trouble forming words. 

Neal turned toward him, his face barely discernible in the twilight of the floor. There was something still and careful in his stance, but his voice was confident as ever, a murmur in the silence. "Mozzie objects to being caught on film. If I ask him to meet me at work to deliver information or whatever, I have to guarantee a security-camera blindspot." He tugged on Clinton's hand. "Come on."

Clinton bit his lip, threw caution to the wind and let Neal take him to a shadowy niche near a tray of white coffee cups that seemed to hover like ghosts just above waist height. There, Neal pushed Clinton against the wall and kissed him hard, and Clinton let his eyes fall shut, plunging them even deeper into darkness, and wrapped his arms around Neal's waist. Nothing else mattered. He shoved his fingers down the back of Neal's pants and pulled his shirt free, clutching at his back. The clamor in Clinton's veins honed in on the sensations of mouth on mouth, body pressed to body and skin on skin, all irresistible, all driving him on.

Neal seemed equally single-minded, and within minutes they were half dressed, their shoes and pants kicked aside. Clinton fumbled in the small gap between them and managed somehow to grip both their cocks, jacking them together as best he could. Neal groaned and bit the angle of Clinton's neck, and Clinton pumped them harder, reveling in the hard weight of Neal's erection against his own, their balls jostling each other with every stroke. Clinton was close to completion already. He didn't want it to end but it was too good to stop or slow down. And then Neal's cock slipped free, smearing Clinton's thigh. Neal panted, hot and loud in Clinton's ear and came to the rescue, gathering them together again. This time they both pitched in, and between them, they jerked off, rough, fast and embarrassingly efficient. 

Neal must have been thinking more clearly than Clinton was, because he had his pocket square ready at the critical moment, saving them from the worst of the potential mess, and then he sagged against Clinton, and Clinton held him and waited for his own pulse to slow and the terrifying reality of what they'd just done to hit home. 

It didn't. He felt elated, adventurous and sexy. No one could see them here. No one need know. Neal shifted his weight, and their bare thighs brushed, sending a shiver down Clinton spine. He framed Neal's face and brought their mouths together, kissing him as eloquently as he knew how.

When they'd both calmed down enough to breathe easy, Neal sighed. "Hate to say it, but I've got to get going."

"Me too." Clinton tightened his embrace to ward off the inevitable parting. "What time is it?"

Neal bent to fish around in their pants. The glare of a phone screen lit the dark. "Nearly quarter past."

"Damn," said Clinton. He was going to be late. 

Neal found half a roll of paper towels in the cabinet above the coffee cups, and they cleaned up quickly and dressed by the light of their phones. Neal straightened Clinton's tie and kissed him softly. "Teamwork," he said with a small smug grin.

Clinton knew he was referring to what they'd just done, both of them with their hands around both of their cocks. He grinned. "A collaborative effort."

"Two people pulling together to get the job done." Neal's grin widened, a shade too bright, and Clinton blinked, his instincts telling him something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, but—something. Or maybe the sex and the erratic lighting were playing tricks on his senses.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, just to be sure.

"We're good." Neal's grin softened into a real smile, and Clinton felt himself relax. 

"Okay." He wanted to kiss Neal again, but that would certainly lead to more, so instead he pressed his lips to the inside of Neal's wrist. It smelled faintly of salt and sex, making Clinton's mouth water. "Let's get out of here before I come up with some more team-building exercises."

"Yeah." Neal cleared his throat. "I have to go. I'm meeting Moz." He sounded almost as reluctant as Clinton felt. They made their way back through the maze of construction gear and waited by the elevators, side by side. 

The elevator announced its arrival, and Neal said, "I'll see you tomorrow." 

Clinton deliberately bumped shoulders with him as they joined the two Bureau executives already in the car. "Tomorrow."


	50. Chapter 50

Clinton arrived late to Aaron's. When he walked in, the apartment was loud with conversation, but it was just Aaron, Darren and Sal ribbing each other like always. The food was already laid out on the round kitchen table, which had been cleared of Sal's laptop and dissertation research. Dub music pulsed lazily through the stereo speakers. 

"Hey, Clinton," said Darren. "We were starting to give up on you." He was wearing a green t-shirt wih a cartoon angel on it, and a caption that read _My sword is flaming._

"Sorry." Clinton presented Aaron with a bottle of wine and resorted to a half-truth that would have done Neal proud. "I got held up at work."

Aaron opened the wine, and Sal herded them all to the table. "Let's eat. I spent all afternoon here smelling the tagine cooking. I'm starving."

Clinton sat between Aaron and Sal and piled his plate with spicy lamb and couscous, while Darren and Sal passed on gossip about the players on their Ultimate team. It was a familiar, almost familial atmosphere, and Clinton found himself relaxing into it. He was going to miss this when Aaron left. On the other hand, his life had changed dramatically in the last few days, and there were definitely compensations. He smiled to himself and glanced up to find Aaron watching him with an amused look. Aaron quirked an eyebrow, and Clinton responded with a small shrug, not wanting to gloat. 

But Darren noticed the exchange and pointed at Clinton. "You've been AWOL lately. What's going on?"

"New exercise regime?" said Sal, helping himself to salad. "You're looking good."

"Yeah, Clinton," said Aaron with a mischievous glint in his eye. "How is Neal?"

"He's fine," said Clinton, trying for cool and failing. His cheeks heated. "He's good." He poked his food with his knife. "This is delicious."

Darren tilted his head, contemplating him for a moment, and then winked at Sal. "I think we missed our chance."

"In your defense, the window of opportunity was pretty small," drawled Aaron.

Clinton kicked him under the table, and Darren shot back with a grin, "Whoever this Neal guy is, he's showing you up, man. Clinton's practically glowing."

Clinton ducked his head in embarrassment, and Aaron looked like he was about to flick couscous at Darren in good-humored retaliation, but Sal intervened before it could turn into a food fight, and Clinton changed the subject to the preparations for Aaron's leaving party, which led to a discussion among the roommates about whether to repurpose decorations from Sal's drag queen friends' Pride float.

"Do we have to decorate?" asked Darren, looking long-suffering. "It just means more clean-up afterwards."

Sal rolled his eyes. "It's a party. Of course we need to decorate. We need lighting, at the very least."

"It's my party," Aaron pointed out. "Mostly I want plenty of tequila and an absence of frisbees."

"Margaritas," said Sal with enthusiasm. "Yes!"

The conversation drifted, and Clinton thought he'd got off lightly, but later, while Darren and Aaron were clearing away the plates, Sal said, "You know, you should have brought Neal with you tonight."

Aaron overheard before Clinton could answer. "It's not too late—call him. I want to meet him."

"There's plenty of pie," said Darren, taking one out of the oven.

Clinton leaned back in his chair, debating how much to say. "He's busy."

"Too busy to meet your friends?" said Darren. 

Sal and Aaron both stopped what they were doing to listen to Clinton's reply.

Clinton figured what the hell. If he couldn't tell these guys, he couldn't tell anyone, and it would save Neal from having to deal with their initial reactions on Saturday. "Neal's on parole. His tracking anklet doesn't allow him to come this far south."

There was a brief, deafening silence. Sal recovered first. "Oh. Wow."

"So that's what you meant by 'complicated'," said Aaron. "Now I really want to meet him."

Darren put the pie on the table and took off the oven mitts. "Does he know you're a Fed?"

Clinton nodded.

The roommates sat down, avidly curious. Sal started to say something, but Aaron interrupted. "How did you meet? Please tell me you didn't arrest him."

"My boss did, years ago," said Clinton, inwardly squirming at being the center of attention. "Have you finished packing up your stuff?"

"Don't change the subject." Aaron looked stern. "What are you hiding?"

"Is he three hundred pounds and covered in tats?" asked Darren, sounding like he was only half joking.

Clinton tried not to feel defensive. These were his friends; it was natural for them to be curious and protective. But still— "What if he is?"

Aaron relaxed a little. "Oh, come on. You know Clinton works in white collar crime. Neal's probably a crooked accountant in a three piece suit."

"Accountants can't have tats?" said Darren.

"Yeah, who doesn't have tattoos these days?" Sal had apparently decided to take Neal's side, sight unseen. He turned to Clinton. "Tell us about him."

"He's not an accountant, and he doesn't have tattoos," said Clinton, and then stopped, struck by the problem of putting Neal into words. "He's smart and creative, and he's a people person. You'll like him." Darren still looked doubtful, so Clinton switched to facts. "And he's one of the least violent people I know. He was convicted of bond forgery, and he's on—"

"Did he do it?" asked Sal. "Or was it a wrongful conviction."

"Oh, he did it." Clinton smiled despite himself, but he didn't tell the others the bonds were just the tip of the Caffrey iceberg. Let them meet him before they found out any more about that. "He's on work release. He consults with the White Collar unit—"

"So you work together," said Darren.

"Not anymore," said Clinton. "I'm on secondment."

"What? When did that happen?" Aaron shook his head. "I don't know, man, you disappear for four days, and now you show up a whole different person." But he was grinning. "Call him, go on. It's still early. We can meet him for a drink somewhere inside his perimeter."

"He's catching up with a friend," said Clinton. Neal had said he was meeting Mozzie, and Clinton didn't want to have to introduce the little guy to Aaron et al as well. But Darren and Sal joined forces with Aaron, and eventually Clinton held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll see if he's free. But you have to play nice."

"We're harmless," said Sal, widening his eyes.

"Pussycats," Darren agreed.

Clinton laughed. "Sure you are." But he got out his phone.


	51. Chapter 51

Neal was behind the scenes at the Met, blending in with the bar staff as they went up to the foyer, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. That would be Peter, who conveniently enough was expecting to have to wait until Neal could slip out of the performance and call him back. Neal sent the call straight to voice mail without looking and adjusted his name badge. That, his white shirt and plain dark suit and tie were guaranteed to make him near invisible to the impending crowd of socialites and opera lovers.

He slipped away from the staff and stationed himself near the auditorium door closest to the seats on June's tickets.

On the other side of the lobby, Mozzie was standing between a potted palm and a tall impatient-looking man with spiky gray hair and fierce eyebrows. Tilki. Neal caught Mozzie's eye and nodded slightly. He had to make sure Tilki could see him getting the paper from Myers. 

The next minute, the doors to the auditorium opened and the audience began to swarm through.

Neal scanned the crush of people, ignoring the glitter of jewelry and expensive watches. It took long enough to spot Myers that Neal was starting to wonder if he'd missed him, but at last there was a glimpse of thinning ginger hair and a face recognizable from Mozzie's photos. He was with a woman in a blue dress, presumably his wife, and they were walking towards the perfect position—not so close to Tilki that he'd would be able to overhear them, but in view. 

Mrs. Meyers said something to her husband and disappeared in the direction of the restrooms, and Neal threaded through the crowd and discreetly got Myers' attention before he could join the line for drinks. Myers was dismissive, once Neal admitted he wasn't from the NAADAA newsletter, but Neal managed to get him to hand over the customer satisfaction survey Mozzie had sent with the tickets. So far so good.

The survey was folded into fat quarters, not lengthwise like the authentication document in Neal's pocket. Neal had to duck behind a group of elderly opera enthusiasts, re-fold the authentication document to match the survey, and then dash to appear back in Mozzie and Tilki's view as if he'd been walking at a steady pace. 

He went across and presented the forged document to Mozzie, who handed it to Tilki and tipped Neal two dollars. 

Neal pocketed the bills with an inward shake of his head. As he walked away into the throng of people, his phone buzzed again. This time, he answered. "Sorry, Peter, you called during a virtuoso performance."

"And yet, you answered," said Peter.

"It's intermission."

There was a pause, as if Peter was going to pursue that, but he seemed to change his mind. "Okay. The point is, can you tear yourself away before the fat lady sings again?"

"I take it Sterling called."

"My gut said he would, and he did."

"Burke's infallible intestines," said Neal. "I'll be at the office in fifteen minutes."

"I'll meet you there." Peter hung up.

Neal made his exit and went to catch a cab. He spent the ride changing his tie to the green silk number he'd have worn if he'd actually been going to the opera—Peter wouldn't notice, but Diana might—and inventing non-lies to say about the performance, in case anyone asked. It wasn't until he was in the elevator on his way up to the twenty-first floor that he checked his phone, intending to text Mozzie and make sure the operation had been a success. There was one missed call, but it wasn't from Peter. It was from Clinton.

"Damn," said Neal, under his breath. He texted a reply: _Sorry I missed you. Got called into work. Talk later. xN_

He checked his hair in the dull reflection of the elevator door, noticing at the last minute—as the doors were opening—that he was still wearing his name badge. He snatched it off, stuffed it into his pocket and headed up to the conference room, where Diana and Peter were waiting.

Five minutes later, he was on speakerphone, talking to Sterling. "Hi, this is Nick. Sorry I missed your call."

Sterling was jovial and ingratiating, and he wanted Nick Halden to join him on a private yacht on Saturday afternoon "to seal the deal."

"That's very kind of you, but I—"

"I like to get to know my investors."

"Well, Clive and I have plans on Saturday afternoon. How about I meet you at the Peacock Club for lunch and we can sign the papers then."

"No, no, you must come," said Sterling. "A little business, a little pleasure—I really do insist. Otherwise the deal's off."

Peter muted the call. 

"He wants to check you out," said Diana. "He's suspicious."

Neal shrugged. "We need those papers." He reached for the mute button. 

Peter stopped him with a gesture. "You are not getting on that yacht without backup."

"Okay," said Neal. He hit the mute button. "Clive and I would be delighted. We're heading up to the Hamptons for a party, but we can swing by on the way."

"Of course, of course," said Sterling, "but I'm confused: you said you wanted the investment to be a surprise."

"Well, you know, I've never been very good at keeping secrets," said Neal. "Clive got it out of me."

"You're both more than welcome," said Sterling. "The weather forecast is perfect, and I'll have the papers ready for you to sign." He gave Neal the details and disconnected the call.

Diana looked up from the laptop they'd used to record the call. "All of a sudden, I'm really glad you said your fiancé's a man."

Neal grinned at her and raised his eyebrows at Peter. "Think we can borrow Clinton back from Kidnapping and Missing Persons for an afternoon?"

Peter shook his head. "Jones isn't in the White Collar unit anymore."

"But—" In Neal's imagination, Nick Halden's fiancé was someone who walked, talked and looked exactly like Clinton.

Peter closed the case file and stood up. "Don't worry, I'm sure we can find an agent willing to pose as your boyfriend."

"You could do it, boss," said Diana, with a grin.

Neal grinned too. "You think he could pull it off?" he asked Diana.

"For about thirty seconds, until you did something to annoy him."

"And then there's the wedding ring and the unmistakable air of happily married man," said Neal.

Peter put his hands on his hips. "I can do undercover."

Neal stopped teasing. "Peter, don't take this the wrong way, but can't we ask Clinton?"

"No. I'm doing it." Peter held up his hand. "No arguments, no complaints."

Chastened by the reference to the bowling bet, Neal gave in gracefully. "Well, can I at least choose what you wear?"

Peter waved that aside. "You can consult with El. But I get right of veto."

Neal made a face at Diana. That would have to do.


	52. Chapter 52

Clinton was in bed, asleep, when someone knocked on his front door. He squinted at the clock: it was twenty past eleven. He'd arrived home from Aaron's less than an hour ago. He closed his eyes for a moment as sleep tried to drag him back under, but there was more knocking, and once it hit home that it was probably Neal—who else could it be?—he suddenly felt lighter and more alert. He turned on the lamp, screwing up his eyes against the glare, pulled on some shorts, kicked his shoes in the general direction of the closet in a token gesture towards tidying up, and went to answer the door.

It was Neal. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans and carrying a suit bag. "Hey." Clinton stepped back, and Neal came in and hung the bag on a coat hook by the door. He turned to Clinton with a warm smile. "This is me, returning your call."

"Mmmf." Clinton gave Neal a clumsy kiss, grabbed a handful of t-shirt and towed him back to the bedroom. "You woke me up."

"Sorry." Neal pried Clinton's fingers off his t-shirt and gave him a gentle shove toward the bed. "Go back to sleep. You want me to leave?" 

"No." Clinton sat on the foot of the bed and rubbed his face. Neal was here. "No, I don't want you to leave. Everything okay?"

Neal crouched down in front of him, steadying himself on Clinton's knee, and the touch sent awareness shimmering up Clinton's thigh. He leaned forward till they were nearly nose to nose and Neal was slightly cross-eyed.

Neal's smile widened—too wide, thought Clinton, alarm bells sounding faintly through the sleep fog—and he leaned in and said against Clinton's lips, "I'd have let myself in, but—"

"Breaking and entering," said Clinton. Neal had agreed to obey the letter of the law this week. 

"Just entering, but yeah," said Neal. "How was your evening?"

Clinton shook off his unease. Neal was probably feeling weird about Clinton having dinner with his ex—that was all it was. "Well, except for the allegations that I invented you to stop Aaron trying to set me up on blind dates—"

Neal laughed. "Because I didn't answer my phone?"

"And you left our fake date last week before Aaron showed up," Clinton reminded him. "They were just teasing. It didn't mean anything." He pulled at Neal's t-shirt, and Neal stood up and skinned out of his clothes, and the next minute they were on the bed, lying in each other's arms, the sheets cool against their skin, and Neal's hands were smoothing down Clinton's back, turning him on. Clinton nuzzled Neal's neck. "Imaginary boyfriend."

"I'm doing that on Saturday."

Clinton pulled back, confused.

"Captain Currency wants to meet on a yacht," said Neal with a shrug, "and Peter said I needed backup, so he's coming too, as my boyfriend."

"Really." Clinton wasn't sure if he was serious. It didn't sound likely.

"Yeah." Neal pulled the covers over them and turned out the light. "Now shhhh, go back to sleep." He kissed Clinton's jaw, the underside of his chin, and gradually made his way down Clinton's body, his hands warm and deliberate, his mouth hot on Clinton's chest and belly. Clinton closed his eyes and breathed, sleepy and aroused and reveling in every touch, letting Neal arrange him however he wanted. The mattress shifted and the covers rose up, sucking in cool air, and then Neal settled between his thighs and took him into his mouth, wet and feather-light. Clinton gave a deep sigh, drifting through sensation and tenderness, losing track of time and place until he could have sworn he was floating. Neal made a soft satisfied sound that vibrated like a hum and before Clinton could warn him, almost before he knew it himself, he was coming in slow, dark shudders that blended into sleep.


	53. Chapter 53

Neal surfaced from a dream of mountain tops and Cirque du Soleil style acrobats to the pleasurable ache of arousal and the steady heat of Clinton's mouth on him. It was morning, and the symmetry with the night before made Neal smile for about a second before his breath caught in his throat and he had to bite his lip to keep from swearing, tension clenching in his gut and at the base of his spine. 

He bent one knee up to create some space for Clinton to move and reached down to pull back the covers and touch Clinton's ear in greeting, the rough-soft stubble of his hair. Neal managed, "'Morning," and then a curse escaped and then another, and he stopped thinking at all.

Later, after a shared shower that used up all the hot water, while Neal was dressing in between mouthfuls of coffee, Clinton came into the room and put a key on the dresser next to Neal's coffee cup. 

"It's not breaking and entering if you have a key."

Neal abandoned the tie mid-half-Windsor and caught Clinton's wrist, pulling him close and kissing him. The key was a small gesture, and given Neal's facility with lock picks and the fact that his week of lawfulness was nearly over, it was more or less redundant, but it meant a lot, and Neal wished he could reciprocate. He couldn't though—aside from respecting June's ambivalence about the FBI, there was too great a risk of Clinton catching Mozzie out. Neal appreciated the style and comfort of his living arrangements, but his place wasn't exactly private.

So he poured his feelings into the kiss, added the key to his key ring and distracted Clinton with plans for the weekend. "So, listen, I have to meet with Sterling tomorrow afternoon, but I'm thinking if it goes well, Peter will let me leave the anklet off for Aaron's party."

He turned to face the mirror, and Clinton stole a mouthful of his coffee and watched over his shoulder as he finished tying his tie. 

"The yacht. You're really going undercover as Peter's boyfriend."

"'Fraid so." Neal positioned his tie clip and looked up to meet Clinton's eye in the mirror. "I told him we should ask you to come back to White Collar for a cameo appearance, but he got defensive at the slight to his undercover skills and insisted he do it. It's just until we can get our hands on Sterling's paperwork. We might not even have to leave the dock."

"I'm having trouble seeing it," said Clinton, his forehead wrinkled in amusement. "Peter?"

"Me too." Neal winked at Clinton's reflection. "Might have to spend the afternoon practicing."

"Don't even think about it." Clinton's gaze grew mock-stern, and Neal laughed.

"Don't worry, the only way it's going to convince anyone is if I pretend he's you." He kissed Clinton, taking his time, making it real. "Mmm, you smell good."

"So do you." Clinton pulled him close and bit gently at Neal's lips, licked into his mouth, and it felt so good, so right that Neal nearly let himself say _I love you._ But it was too soon. They'd been together less than a week, and when he said it, he wanted Clinton to take him seriously. He swallowed the declaration and pulled away with a sigh. "I've got to get going. Apparently punctuality is one of the rules I'm supposed to abide by."

"Me too." Clinton glanced at his watch. "Damn, where did the morning go?"

They held hands in the back of the cab, sitting with their knees pressed together, and Neal knew he was wearing a stupid sappy grin, but so was Clinton, so he didn't fight it. As they approached the FBI building, Neal straightened his tie and said, "See you after bowling."

"Yeah," said Clinton. "See you then."

They bundled into the elevator with a dozen other people, and then it was the twenty-first floor and business as usual.

Neal escaped at ten-thirty to confer briefly with Mozzie in a park a couple of blocks away. "Did it work?"

"Good morning to you too," said Mozzie, pulling himself up with dignity. "And yes, the Turkish gentleman is satisfied, and peace reigneth upon the earth."

"June's safe," said Neal, just to be sure.

"She is." Mozzie leaned against a statue. "And you owe me two dollars."

Neal hid a sigh and handed over the bank notes Mozzie had given him the night before. "You know you didn't have to tip me."

"'The essence of lying is in deception, not in words'," said Mozzie. "John Ruskin."

"I know," said Neal. He looked around at the bright day—sunshine bouncing off the buildings, the sky above blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds. It was foolish to think the weather was conspiring to reflect his mood, but even so, it made him smile. "So, we're good."

"We are." Mozzie stuck his hands in his pockets and studied Neal through the thick lenses of his glasses. "You didn't come home last night. I know—" He held up his hands to forestall Neal's objections. "None of my business. Just be careful, okay? 'The course of true love never did run smooth,' especially between con man and law man. It's a cliché because it's true."

"I'm being careful," said Neal, more or less honestly. He hadn't told Clinton about last night. "Oh, hey, and Mozzie? Don't wait up."

Mozzie shook his head in obvious concern and went off to do whatever it was he did during the day. Neal went back to work.


	54. Chapter 54

Clinton sat at his desk, a missing person case file open in front of him, and tapped a pen between his fingers as he contemplated the origami butterfly stuck to the side of his computer monitor. He was happy and things were going great—better than great—except for one thing. He was pretty sure Neal was hiding something. In the last twenty-four hours, Clinton's instincts had pinged him twice, and although he wanted to dismiss that as coincidence and paranoia, he couldn't. It meant something.

If it hadn't been for last night, Clinton might have thought Neal was still operating by his One Time plan: that he'd been holding out for what they'd done Wednesday night, and everything else had been a con. But Neal wasn't acting like a man who'd had enough and was trying to extricate himself. Far from it.

So, what then? Neal could be up to something illegal—as Diana had said, he was no choir boy, and though Clinton would have liked to think their relationship, new as it was, would have some restraining effect, Neal was still Neal. 

The worst case scenario, Clinton decided, was that Neal was feeling weird about Wednesday night, about the sex. It was a hot button, culturally speaking, and it would be understandable if Neal saw Clinton in a different light now, but it wasn't a pleasant thought. Still, with how things were between them, Clinton thought they could work it out. It wouldn't be the end of the road—just a speed bump. 

And he didn't know it was that. He didn't know what it was.

His phone buzzed with a text message, and he picked it up, pulse quickening in anticipation, expecting it to be Neal. But it was Diana: _You want to meet for lunch?_

Across the room, Stone and Holt were talking about Sean Hannity's radio show with great enthusiasm. Patterson was out of the office, probably interviewing the family of another missing person.

 _12.30?_ Clinton replied to Diana, glad of the opportunity to catch up with someone he knew and trusted.

He'd just sent the reply when Agent Rice called him into her office. "Jones," she said. "Shut the door. How are you settling in?"

Clinton closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of her desk. "Fine, thank you."

She nodded. "You're doing good work. Sit down."

Clinton sat, curious to see what was coming next. As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything wrong, but Rice was prickly and he didn't know her well enough to predict her reactions. A reprimand might still be on its way.

Rice sighed and folded her arms on her blotter. "Anne-Marie Fischer called me yesterday to say that she's decided not to come back to Kidnapping and Missing Persons. She wants to take a desk job once she's recuperated." Rice raised her chin and met Clinton's eye. "If you want to stay on here, the position's yours."

Clinton hid his surprise and tried to think it through. On the one hand, he'd been with White Collar for seven good years. He liked the cases and the rest of the team, and he liked working for Peter. He'd felt like a fish out of water in Kidnapping and Missing Persons since the moment he'd transferred, Stone got on his nerves every time he opened his mouth and Rice was far from Clinton's idea of the perfect boss. 

On the other hand, there was a certain amount of pride: Clinton could make this work if he wanted to. And there was Neal, the reason Clinton had taken the secondment in the first place. "Can I think about it?"

"Of course." Rice studied him for a moment, and Clinton tried not to feel self-conscious. Finally, her eyebrows twitched and her expression softened slightly. "I hope you'll give it serious consideration. You're a good agent, Jones. You'd be an asset to the team."

An hour later, at lunch with Diana, Clinton kept this development to himself: he needed to work through his own priorities before he asked anyone else for their opinion. So when Diana sat across from him in the booth and asked how it was going with Kidnapping and Missing Persons, Clinton just gave her a rueful smile and said, "Bowling tryouts this evening. No exceptions. The only person who's been excused is Adams, because he has two small kids and his wife's eight months pregnant."

Diana grinned. "Peter's created a monster."

"He didn't start it." Clinton dug his fork into his salad. "It was Neal's idea, and believe me, he's regretting it."

Diana tilted her head. "How's that going? Is he freaking out yet?"

"Freaking out about what?" 

"You know, the guy-on-guy thing, identity, labels, society—" She gestured vaguely.

"Not so you'd notice. He's Neal. He just does whatever he feels like and expects the rest of the world to find it charming." Clinton ate another mouthful. "Which they do. Did he really come out to Captain Currency?"

"Oh, that." Diana put down her soda and gave him a mischievous look. "For what it's worth, Caffrey was thinking of you when he told Sterling he was bringing his fiancé to the meeting."

"Fiancé?"

"He didn't tell you? Neal and Peter are going undercover as soon-to-be newlyweds."

"He said 'boyfriend'."

Diana smirked. "He was pretty disappointed when Peter said he'd do it."

"You're running the backup?"

"Coordinating with the Coast Guard and everything, yeah." Her smile faded. "Don't worry. We'll take care of them."

"I'm not doubting you." Clinton put down his fork. Captain Currency had a bad reputation, but Neal and Peter had faced down worse. Of course, Clinton had always been there before, ready to step in when they needed him, but Diana was more than equal to the task. They'd be fine. "Let me know if you need a hand."

"Aww, look at you." Diana was grinning again, teasing him. "Volunteering to spend time in the surveillance van. It must be love."


	55. Chapter 55

Neal sauntered into Peter's office and pushed a stack of case files aside so he could sit on the side of the desk. The sun was striping a long triangle of carpet through the blinds. Neal fixed Peter with a soulful look. "How's it going, babe?"

Peter sat back in his chair and eyed him with mild suspicion. "Neal, what are you doing?"

"Practicing," said Neal. "And it's Nick, but you can call me 'sweetheart' or 'babe' or—" He caught Peter's eye and did his best not to laugh. "Or you could stick to Nick."

"Mmm." 

"So, what's our story?" asked Neal, resting his hand in the middle of Peter's blotter and sprawling slightly. "We met in Cancún, right? Who proposed to whom?"

Peter glanced longingly at his computer screen. "Do we have to do this?"

"We do if we're going to fool Sterling," said Neal. "Would you rather do it in front of the rest of the team?"

"No." Peter sighed. "Go on."

"We spend most of our time at our Upper West Side loft apartment, overlooking the Hudson, but you also have pied-à-terres in Boston and Montreal—"

Peter's eyebrows drew together. "Why Montreal?"

"You have a weakness for men who speak French," Neal told him. He swung his leg, letting his heel bump gently against the side of the desk. "You like sports, especially motor racing, and you have an extensive wine collection—"

"Which was what you really fell in love with—"

"Initially." Neal grinned. "I learned to appreciate the man behind the Merlot."

"I'm sure the Merlot helped." Peter shook his head, feigning disappointment, and added his own two cents' worth. "You proposed to me at Christmas in front of my entire family—"

"Which you found adorable," said Neal helpfully.

Peter grinned. "Right."

"And for our last vacation, we went to Reykjavik to see the _aurora borealis_. Very romantic. But you don't take a lot of vacations."

"Currency trading is demanding work," Peter agreed. "What is it you do with your time again?"

Neal tilted his head back and contemplated the ceiling. "I was a professional gambler, but I hung up my cards because you said your father wouldn't approve." He dropped his gaze to Peter's face, eyes dancing. "Now I just spend your money."

"Wastrel."

"Babe!" Neal affected a tragic tone. "Even when you're not working, you're aloof and distant. I sometimes wonder why I put up with you."

"Perhaps it's my deep pockets," said Peter drily. 

"Clive, you wound me!" Neal pouted. "I'll have you know I'm a romantic. Your mother definitely thinks so."

"She never was very discerning," said Peter. He raised his eyebrows. "Are we done?"

Neal considered suggesting that they hug, just to break the ice, but Peter would probably say no, and Neal was reasonably confident they could wing it for Sterling if they had to. "I think so."

"Good," said Peter. "Go and make yourself useful. See if Diana needs any help."

"You got it." Neal stood up and stepped forward to squeeze Peter's shoulder. "Don't work too hard, babe."

Peter swatted him away with a file folder, and Neal evaded, laughing, and headed for the door. He would have preferred to go undercover with Clinton, but it was always fun teasing Peter. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon helping Diana plan out different backup scenarios depending on where Sterling chose to sail, and then it was five-thirty, and time to go home and change for bowling. 

This week, Elizabeth was filling in for Clinton, since no one else in White Collar seemed inclined to step up and join the core team—probably because of the rumors about Peter taking the whole competitive aspect to trophy-purchasing extremes. 

So the line-up was Neal and Diana versus Peter and Elizabeth. Neal was pleased to find his game had noticeably improved. He could hold his own against Elizabeth and Diana now, at least when he was on a winning streak—which he was until Diana elbowed him in the ribs during the ninth frame and pointed down to the other end of the alley, where Clinton, Rice and eight or nine other semi-familiar faces had taken two lanes. Kidnapping and Missing Persons. Of course they'd come to the same alley: it was close to the Bureau, and Rice probably wanted to scope out the opposition.

Neal watched them through the bustle, the clatter of pins and the chatter of voices, and finally Clinton glanced his way and raised a hand in greeting, but he didn't come over, and even from this distance, he looked tense. He picked up a bowling ball and said something to a thin woman with wispy brown hair. She nodded. 

Neal was about to force himself back to the White Collar game when a big, red-faced bull of a man, standing with the other Kidnapping and Missing Persons agents, looked right across at him and said something—from his expression, Neal guessed it wasn't a compliment—and Clinton turned on him, getting in his face.

"He can handle it," said Diana in Neal's ear, but Neal shrugged off her restraining hand. The insult had been about him, and he wasn't going to leave Clinton to deal with it on his own. 

"I'll be right back," he told Diana, and went to find out what was going on.


	56. Chapter 56

Clinton arrived at the bowling alley at seven-thirty with the other Kidnapping and Missing Persons agents. Despite his lunch with Diana, he was tired and fed up: Stone had been getting on his nerves all afternoon, Clinton was worried about Neal going undercover with Sterling the next day, and he missed the respect and seniority he'd taken for granted in White Collar. The decision to work out the secondment and hightail it back to where he belonged should have been easy, but in some ways, the obstacles and irritations of Kidnapping and Missing Persons just made Clinton more stubborn. And then there was Neal. Who was hiding something.

Clinton tried to shrug off his mood. They were here to bowl. Familiar sounds and smells assailed him as he got shoes from the shoe rental, and he sat down next to Patterson to put them on. 

Jepsen came over, drinking a soda. He was one of Rice's probies, and he reminded Clinton a little of himself when he was younger. "Hey, Jones," he said. "Good work with the Reiner case, man."

"What's that?" Clinton looked up from his laces. 

Jepsen raised his soda in salute. "Gloria said congratulations are in order."

For a second, Clinton wondered if word had got out about Neal and his fake fiancé, and his stomach tightened, but then Patterson filled him in. "Yvonne Reiner called just before I left work to say thanks. She and Daniel are giving it another try."

Clinton's tension turned into a glow of achievement, but that was quickly snuffed out when Stone stopped to put in his two cents'. "What did I tell you? Women love losers."

"I suppose that would explain why you're in such hot demand," said Patterson sweetly.

Jepsen grinned and moved away, out of the line of fire.

"Ooh, feisty," said Stone, mocking Patterson. "We should have just arrested Reiner, you know."

"On what charge?" asked Clinton.

"Wasting our time." Stone puffed himself up. "We're here to catch bad guys, not to play marriage counselor."

Clinton gritted his teeth. "Keep it to yourself, Stone."

He and Patterson stood up and followed Jepsen, but Stone followed after them, still spouting his law enforcement philosophy, which seemed to involve incarcerating as many people as possible, whether or not they'd broken the law.

Clinton looked down to the other end of the alley, where the White Collar team were playing. His people. Elizabeth said something to Peter that made him laugh, and Diana was taking her turn, while Neal stood, his back to the others, watching Clinton through the Friday night crush of people. Clinton wished he could fast-forward the evening until they could be alone together. It was bad enough having to be here with Stone and Holt, knowing Rice wouldn't do anything to rein Stone in, but having Neal and the others there too made Clinton feel lonely and exposed. The instinct to keep his private life private was strong. He fought it, waving to Neal, acknowledging him, and Neal waved back, his smile warming Clinton even at this distance.

"You okay?" said Patterson at Clinton's side. She didn't seem to have noticed Neal.

Clinton turned to her and made a face. "It's going to be a long evening."

She nodded. "Yeah. Don't let Stone get to you."

"No, I know." Clinton was going to have to face Stone down eventually—someone had to, and the man seemed immune to Patterson's criticism—but not here. Not now. But just as he thought that, Stone's loud drawl cut through the babble of voices.

"That's Caffrey? I'm impressed. You'd never guess he's rough trade."

Clinton flushed, furious at Stone and ashamed of himself, that he hadn't put a stop to this sooner. His fists clenched and he turned to face Stone, his voice coming out in a growl. "Shut the fuck up."

"Hey, if you can't take a joke—" There was a gleam of triumph in Stone's eyes.

Clinton didn't care. "No one here is laughing."

Stone squared his shoulders and loomed. "What are you going to do about it?"

And damn, Clinton wanted to take him down. His martial arts training supplied him with exactly what it would take to throw Stone to the ground and break half the bones in his body, and Clinton _wanted_ to, dammit, he was _going_ to— A hand on his arm make him flinch. 

"Clinton." It was Neal.

"Oh look, it's the love birds," said Stone, mean and sneering. 

Clinton's fist tightened, but Neal was holding him back, stopping him, gentle but firm, and suddenly, the world flipped right way up. Clinton took a step back, a deep breath and looked at Neal. "Living well."

"The best revenge." Neal's mouth curved at the corners, his eyes serious, and Clinton took him into his arms and kissed him, a sweeping, epic, romantic kiss like at the end of a movie. 

There was a murmur from those around them that sounded like approval, and even a smattering of applause, but Clinton didn't care. He cupped the side of Neal's neck and kept kissing, throwing away his need for privacy, his dignity and any chance of ever fitting in in Rice's team, and not caring because it was Neal holding him, kissing him back, making Clinton's heart ache with how much he loved him. 

After what felt like forever, Neal pulled back slightly, and Clinton opened his eyes. Neal was flushed and his breath was unsteady, his eyes blurred. "You want to get out of here?"

It wasn't a proposition, just an invitation to escape, for them to be alone. Clinton smiled. "Let's go."

There was applause then, real applause and even a few cat calls from the assembled audience of Kidnapping and Missing Persons agents. Clinton glanced at Stone—who'd gone from bully to near irrelevance in the space of a few minutes—and saw Patterson murmuring something to him that made Stone's face turn even redder. 

Patterson grinned and waved to Clinton. "See you Monday."

Clinton and Neal switched their shoes in record time, and then they were out of there, exultant and free, weaving together, hand in hand, through the crush of people on the busy sidewalk.


	57. Chapter 57

Walking down Broadway with Clinton's hand in his, Friday night crowds all around them, Neal did his best to match Clinton's mood of rebellious, self-righteous elation, but secretly he was rattled. Yesterday their affair had felt clandestine—sneaking around at the office, hiding their relationship from strangers in the elevator and turning up at Clinton's house late at night, far from prying eyes. In that context, Neal's helping Mozzie with his problem hadn't felt like a betrayal. Neal had broken Peter's trust, but it'd had nothing to do with Clinton, who was shielded by what Neal liked to think of as the separation of graft and going straight. But now Clinton had claimed him publicly, before work colleagues and everyone, allies and adversaries. Everyone knew. Now Neal's actions couldn't help but reflect on Clinton.

What if Myers found out he'd been tricked and slandered, and he decided to retaliate? What if Tilki discovered that the authentication document was a forgery? Neal tried to push his doubts aside. He was a professional con: he had faith in his talents and that he'd successfully fooled both of his marks, and he'd always been able to fake a carefree good time, but this was Clinton, and Neal didn't want to fake with him. If they were really doing this, if they belonged together, then Neal needed to be himself, illicit indiscretions and all. 

The scar tissue around Neal's heart, impenetrable since Kate's death, had fallen away, leaving him raw and vulnerable, and the prospect of revealing himself and being rejected for it was more daunting than anything he could imagine. Clinton was still—first, foremost and always—a lawman. Neal had no idea how he'd react to the news that Neal had crossed the legal line.

Clinton stopped on a street corner and suggested they get burgers to go, and Neal pasted on a bright smile. "Sure. I could eat."

Clinton's gaze sharpened but he didn't say anything, and Neal quickly distracted him with a choice of restaurants.

Forty minutes later, they were settling in on Clinton's couch with bags of burgers and fries. Clinton turned on the tv and flipped through the channels till he found an action movie, mid-car-chase, and while they ate, they watched the bad guys pull one trick after another to evade the cops.

Appetite lost, Neal scrunched up the remains of his burger in its wrapper, dropped it into the empty paper bag and lay down on the couch with his head in Clinton's lap, so he could watch the movie and be close to Clinton without having to look him in the face. It shouldn't be this hard to keep a secret. He'd been keeping secrets his whole life.

There was the sound of paper being crumpled, and Clinton threw his own balled-up burger wrapper onto the table and dropped his hand to Neal's shoulder. He squeezed gently and followed the line of Neal's arm to his waist and then his hip. Neal's pulse kicked up. He wanted to roll over and press his face to Clinton's crotch, or pull him down to lie with him. Distract them both. But he couldn't move. 

A billowing orange explosion filled the tv screen. Neal closed his eyes and kept his voice as casual and careless as he could. "So, Clinton, what made you pass up a lucrative law career to join the FBI?"

"Probably watched too many movies like this as a kid," said Clinton. Neal could hear his smile. "No, I don't know. After the Navy, I had a lot of choices, but they weren't all ones that'd make your mother proud. The FBI was the only one I really wanted."

"I'm guessing they didn't mentioned the surveillance van in the Quantico brochure."

Clinton laughed. "If they had, I might've had second thoughts. But now it's me. It's who I am. I like feeling like I'm making the world better."

Neal rolled onto his back and looked up at him. "You do."

"Sap." Clinton's eyes were warm and teasing.

"I'm paying you an honest compliment," Neal told him.

Clinton brushed Neal's lips with his thumb. "Thank you."

Two of his fingers slid into Neal's mouth, and Neal sucked on them reflexively, thrown off course by a burst of desire fizzing through his bloodstream. Clinton's teeth were white and even, digging into his lower lip, and his chest was rising and falling, and Neal wanted him so badly, wanted to forget this perilous conversation and give himself up to Clinton's embrace, but he couldn't. He caught Clinton's hand and pulled it down to his chest, held it there, putting on the brakes and waiting while Clinton recovered his composure. Then Neal said, "On Monday, when you were arranging the secondment, did Peter tell you that if I break the law, it could reflect badly on you? It could mess up your career?"

"He didn't have to. I already knew." Clinton's hand pressed down on Neal's sternum, a warm, solid weight holding him in place. 

Neal stroked up his wrist, memorizing the scene, the fine hairs under his fingertips, the quips on tv, the faint lingering smell of burgers and fries. Clinton's thigh under his head and the pressure on his chest, too precious to lose, but he couldn't pretend to be someone he wasn't, not anymore. "Listen," he said, "I don't want to lie to you, all right, but I—I can't tell you the whole truth."

"Did you do something?" 

Neal nodded. 

Clinton didn't looked shocked or upset. If anything—and it was hard to read him at this angle, so Neal sat up and faced him, sitting sideways on the couch with his leg folded under him, still holding onto Clinton's hand like a lifeline—if anything Clinton seemed weirdly relieved.

"Which—" Neal tilted his head. "Aside from anything else, Peter and I had a deal."

"The bet," said Clinton. "One week of good behavior."

"That's the one." Neal grimaced. 

Clinton brought Neal's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his palm. "So tell Peter what you did. Make it right."

Neal frowned. "It's not that simple."

"Yeah," said Clinton, pulling Neal against him, into his arms in an awkward sprawl. Neal was so glad to be there, to feel Clinton's body, warm and loving despite his confession, that he almost didn't hear Clinton murmur in his ear, "Yeah, it is."


	58. Chapter 58

Neal took an audible breath and knocked on the Burkes' front door. Clinton was hanging back a little, holding the beer Neal had insisted on bringing to smooth the way.

Elizabeth answered. She grinned when she saw them and opened the door wide to invite them in. "That was quite a display you guys put on at the bowling alley this evening."

"Sorry I walked out on the game," said Neal.

Elizabeth patted his arm. "Don't worry about it. We understood you had to make a dramatic exit." She turned and called up the stairs, "Clive, honey, your fiancé and his boyfriend are here to see you."

"Clive?" asked Clinton, as a quiet aside to Neal.

"Long story. I'll tell you later."

Elizabeth laughed and disappeared toward the kitchen, returning a moment later with a dog leash and a bottle opener. The Burkes' Labrador came trotting over without being called, and when Peter ran down the stairs, Elizabeth clipped the leash to the dog's collar and told Peter she'd be back in fifteen minutes. "Save me a beer," she told Neal, handing him the bottle opener.

"You got it," said Neal. "Thanks, Elizabeth."

The door closed behind her and the dog, and the others went to sit at the dining table, Neal and Clinton on one side, Peter across from them. Neal opened three bottles and solemnly gave one each to Clinton and Peter.

Peter raised his eyebrows and waited. He didn't touch his beer.

Neal took a drink, put down the bottle and turned it on the tabletop, then wiped away the smear of condensation it had left on the wooden surface. He looked at Peter. "I have something to confess."

"It can never be just a beer with you, can it?" said Peter, wryly. He looked to Clinton. "Why are you here? Did you come to supply a character reference, or has Neal corrupted you to the dark side already?"

"I'm here for moral support," said Clinton.

Neal sent him a fleeting, grateful look. "And he drove me."

"Okay." Peter drank a mouthful of beer. "Let's hear it. Did you steal something?"

"No," said Neal quickly. He seemed to turn his full attention back to Peter, but under the table, his knee nudged up against Clinton's. "Someone was threatening June, through no fault of her own. I gave him what he wanted to make him go away."

"What did he want?" asked Peter.

"Authentication papers for an antique."

"And were these papers genuine?"

Neal's expression was eloquent.

Peter sighed. "Neal."

"I know, Peter." Neal sounded as frustrated as Peter looked. "I didn't want to. It was for June."

"You could have brought it to me," Peter told him. "We could have fixed it together. Legally."

"You wouldn't have been able to do anything. He's—" Neal broke off. His fingertips were white where he was gripping the beer bottle. He lowered his voice. "I'm sorry."

Peter studied him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "And this is the only time you broke the rules this week, spirit or letter?"

Neal ducked his head, and the pressure of his knee increased. "That—depends on how strict your definition is."

Peter raised his eyebrows at Clinton, who had a sudden, ill-timed flashback to the events on the twenty-second floor the night before, Neal's hand tangling with his own. He blushed.

Peter held up his beer bottle to stop any further revelations. "I'm guessing I don't want to know."

The corner of Neal's mouth twitched, and they all drank their beer in silence, until Clinton couldn't take it anymore. He cleared his throat. "Now what?"

Peter pursed his lips. "Now—Neal still owes me a week of by-the-book behavior." He pointed his bottle at Neal. "Are you good for it?"

"Yes," said Neal. "That's it?"

"That's it." Peter's demeanor had returned to its baseline for dealing with Neal: wry amusement tempered with long-sufferance. He sat back in his seat, as if to signal that the conference was over, and said to Clinton, "We miss you on the team. But if your influence encourages Neal to share his secret illegal activities, that's some consolation."

"I can't promise anything," said Clinton, but he was glad of Peter's approval, especially given the circumstances.

"I wouldn't expect you to." Peter took another drink and regarded him thoughtfully. "How are you finding working for Rice?"

Clinton answered diplomatically, and the conversation moved on to general FBI business, with the three of them weighing in. 

Finally, Peter finished his drink and put the empty aside. "Jones, how would you feel about going undercover for the White Collar unit tomorrow afternoon as Neal's fiancé?"

"Of course," said Clinton. "I'd be happy to."

Peter nodded. "Coordinate with Diana." He reached across to snag the bottle opener and another beer. 

Obviously delighted by this development, Neal elbowed Clinton and then sent Peter a quizzical look. "What changed your mind?" 

"It's not a reward for misbehavior," said Peter. "You two look like a couple—you can't fake that."

Neal grinned. "Elizabeth's teasing had nothing to do with it?"

Peter shook his head, warmly exasperated. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

They left with alacrity. Outside, in the car, before Clinton could start the engine, Neal leaned across and rested his head on Clinton's shoulder. "Thank you."

Clinton swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "Any time."

They went back to Clinton's and fucked in the dark, warm with tenderness and laughter as if they were celebrating, as if everything had changed. Afterwards, when they were lying together, Clinton wrapped his arm across Neal's belly and said, "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" 

Neal sounded drowsy and trusting, and Clinton's heart skipped a beat. He nearly said, 'Tell me you love me,' but that wasn't what he'd meant. "What you did. Was it just the forgery?"

The mattress dipped as Neal rolled to face him, his face in shadow. "Okay, I—no, it wasn't just the document. I had to trick the guy into thinking it was the real deal." He outlined the plan, describing it as if he'd managed the whole thing himself, though Clinton was fairly sure Mozzie must have played a part. When Neal finished, he pulled away slightly, as if he were trying to make out Clinton's expression. "Do you disapprove?"

"That you're devious and brilliant?" said Clinton. "It's a little scary, but it's not exactly news." He put his hand on the jut of Neal's hip, holding him close. "I like that you were looking out for June." He tilted forward and found Neal's mouth in the dark. "And I'm glad you told me."

Neal sighed and moved against him, kissing back. "Me too," he said.


	59. Chapter 59

Neal stretched luxuriously. Over the years, he'd forgotten how much better he slept with someone else in the bed, but he felt more rested and relaxed than he had in a long time, and waking was made even sweeter by the knowledge that he'd been honest with Clinton, and Clinton had accepted him for who he was. Plus it was Saturday: there was the Sterling meet that afternoon and Aaron's party that night, but even those events involved the two of them together, and otherwise, the weekend stretched clear and empty.

Neal rolled onto his back, careful not to disturb Clinton, who was still fast asleep. The movement caused the tracker to snag slightly against the sheets, and Neal thought again about convincing Peter to leave it off for the party. He hadn't asked yet, but he was pretty sure that if the Sterling meet went well, Peter would be fine with it, even after last night. The party was Neal's first chance in a long time to make friends as just himself, unencumbered with the baggage of CI or felon. Ordinary, real friends, rather than colleagues, accomplices or marks. 

He pulled Clinton's arm across his chest, the weight like an anchor, and drifted back to sleep, and he was woken some time later by Clinton returning from the bathroom, if the sound of flushing water was anything to go by. Neal smiled. "Hey."

"Hey." Clinton lay down with him and kissed him softly. "Good morning."

"Weekend morning." Neal let his hands roam. 

Clinton caught his wrist. "I should call Diana."

"Later," said Neal. "Come here, Clive." He rolled Clinton onto his back and leaned over him. "We have to work on our backstory."

But Clinton's expression was too warm and tender to waste on make believe. Neal leaned in, his cock trapped against Clinton's thigh, and teased his lips. Clinton's response said he too was more than willing to be diverted. 

He put his hand on Neal's ass, murmuring, "What are you after?" 

"Surprise me," said Neal, somewhere between a tease and a challenge, and then Clinton was pulling him closer and kissing him hard, and his fingers were slipping down to feather across Neal's hole. 

Neal shivered, shocked at how erotic and intimate it felt. Just from that light touch, pleasure rippled across his skin like the wind across the surface of a lake, melding with the joy of being with Clinton, of being known and wanted, and of wanting back. He pushed down, but Clinton didn't take the opportunity to slip inside, just kept fingering the sensitive skin there, ratcheting up Neal's desire, and all the time kissing him as if he wanted nothing more.

Neal groaned and flung his knee across Clinton's legs, spreading himself open in invitation. He hadn't done much in this area before—Kate had been fairly conventional, and he hadn't trusted Alex enough to let himself be vulnerable with her, and before them there'd been a series of brief encounters, nothing unexpected—but Christ, this felt good, and he needed more. But still Clinton held back, his other hand threading into Neal's hair and holding him steady, licking along Neal's jaw and nuzzling below his ear. 

"Please," said Neal, hoarse and desperate, and he felt Clinton's breath, hot against his neck.

"Take it easy," he said, and edged out from beneath him, leaving Neal barely able to keep from humping the mattress. Clinton moved to the side of the bed and rummaged in the nightstand. Neal could only see the curve of his back, his bowed head, but he heard the crinkle of a condom packet and something quick and sharp-sounding, like the snip of scissors. Then Clinton was back, running a firm hand down Neal's spine and nudging his legs apart. Neal turned his head to try and see what was going on, but Clinton was further down the bed than he expected.

"You want to stop, just say," said Clinton from between Neal's knees, and Neal said, "Do it," and braced himself for fingers or the purple-marbled dildo or whatever else Clinton had in mind, but instead of cool lube or pressure against his hole, there were fingers holding something down, pulling his ass cheeks apart, and then, oh Jesus, then Clinton's mouth on him back there, his tongue, hot and gentle. There was some kind of barrier—that must be what the condom had been for—but Neal barely felt it, his tense limbs gone suddenly limp, his pleasure centers overloaded as Clinton licked him, torturing him slowly and exquisitely to a fevered arousal.

"Oh my god," breathed Neal. He pushed back slightly, opening himself up further with Clinton's hands, wondering how long he could stand this before he exploded into nothing but light and air. His cock was throbbing, but the main sensation was pulsing deeper and darker, right at his core. Was being fucked like this? Was _anything_ like this? Neal's appetite for finding out expanded with the heat washing through him, but before he could find a way to convey that, Clinton shifted his grip slightly. His thumbs slid along the crease under Neal's ass at just the same time that Neal became subtly aware of Clinton's stubble against his inner cheek, and that drove everything into a sudden state of overload, whiting out Neal's vision and sending shudders through him that culminated in his coming hard against the mattress, leaving him wrecked and helpless. 

And even then, either Clinton didn't notice Neal had come or he didn't care, because he kept on running his tongue over Neal's hole, kissing him there, and the aftershocks were more than Neal could stand. He twisted to reached back and grope clumsily for Clinton's head, his face, and then Clinton was in his arms, heavy and hard up against him, plying him with kisses that tasted faintly of latex.

"Oh my god," repeated Neal, when he'd caught his breath enough to speak. 

Clinton laughed low. "You said to surprise you."

He was still turned on, and he deserved gold-plated, five-star sex after what he'd just done, but Neal couldn't summon the muscle coordination to do more than kiss him. 

Luckily, Clinton seemed to accept that as the tribute it was. He took it upon himself to wrap Neal's hand around him, and together, still kissing, all tongue and heavy breathing, they stroked Clinton until he came.

Ignoring the mess, Neal wove their fingers together and looked at Clinton through his eyelashes. "So, Clive, so you know, I'm not just marrying you for your extensive wine collection."


	60. Chapter 60

It was nearly another hour before they made it out of bed and into the shower, and then Neal insisted they go out for breakfast. "Much as I hate to say it, we need to keep our hands off each other long enough to get our cover straight."

He seemed uncharacteristically earnest, and Clinton bumped shoulders with him on their way out the front door, enjoying the casual contact and trying to lighten the mood. "Does this mean you're finally taking Captain Currency seriously?"

Neal put on his sunglasses, and they started down the street toward Clinton's local diner. "More like if we prove we can do this, maybe Peter will let us work together when your secondment's up." 

"Maybe." Clinton doubted it, and he had other options now, but it didn't seem the time to raise the subject of his transferring permanently to Rice's team. He took Neal's hand. "So, Nick—how did we meet? My ex-boss set us up, didn't he?"

Neal grinned. "That sounds about right. You're a currency trader, nice but not too scrupulous. We live in your SoHo loft, when I'm not luring you away for skiing vacations in the Swiss Alps."

"I like chocolate," said Clinton. They found a table and ordered coffee and pancakes. "What about you? You were a pianist on a cruiseliner—why'd you give that up?"

"For love," said Neal, batting his eyelashes. "And I inherited a chunk of change from my grandfather, God rest his soul."

"For a while you collected rare documents and art," said Clinton, straight-faced, "but then you decided to knuckle down and make yourself useful."

"A productive member of society." Neal nodded.

"So you did an MBA and became a management consultant."

"I did. It changed my life, and—" Neal broke off as a waiter came to take their order. 

They spent the meal finessing their story, designing the details of their fake relationship, discussing their wedding plans and practicing calling each other "babe," "Nick" and "Clive." It was more fun than any of Clinton's previous briefings, that was for sure. 

Then Neal put down his coffee cup and said, "Best case scenario, Sterling buys our cover, we sign the papers and he brings us back to the marina. I mean, ideally we don't leave the marina in the first place, but I think Diana was right, he wants to check me out."

Clinton raised his eyebrows teasingly.

"Not like that." Neal smacked his arm lightly. "Second best case, he decides not to go through with the property scam but he doesn't want to make any waves, no pun intended. If that happens, we might need to fight."

"With him?" Clinton had been expecting that.

"No, with each other," said Neal. "About the wedding, the party in the Hamptons, anything to give me a reason to storm below deck and rifle through Sterling's belongings."

Clinton studied him, the careless wave of his hair, the curve of his mouth and the stubbornness of his chin. He looked relaxed and happy, and the last thing Clinton wanted to do was fight with him, but this wasn't about them. It was about Clive and Nick and taking down a murderer. "Okay."

"And then later, we get to make up." Neal's mouth widened into a smile, and Clinton knew that behind the dark lenses, there was a teasing glint in his eye.

"I'm going to hold you to that." Clinton signaled to the waiter for another cup of coffee. "So, what's the worst case scenario?"

"We end up fish food," said Neal, cheerfully. "Don't worry. It's not going to happen."

"If we get made, we improvise," translated Clinton. 

"You can swim, right?"

Clinton nodded. "I can swim."


	61. Chapter 61

"Nice yacht," said Neal, stepping aboard Sterling's forty-foot cabin cruiser. It was sleek and gleaming white, with the name _Four Winds_ stenciled in blue on its hull, and there were a couple of tanned, shapely women in tiny bikinis on the front deck, who were probably Sterling's idea of elegant life-style props. Cons were all about showmanship.

Sterling himself was wearing white pants and a sailor's cap, and he had an unlit pipe clamped between his teeth, poking out from his bristly mustache. It would have been easy to dismiss him as a buffoon, but the yacht, the women, even the blue sky and sparkling water were all a smokescreen designed to distract Neal and Clinton from his suspicions. He was definitely testing them.

Neal averted his eyes from the women, in keeping with his cover, and admired the cruiser instead. "She's beautiful."

"The ocean is my true home," said Sterling. "So glad you could make it, Nicholas. And this must be—"

"My fiancé, Clive," said Neal, smiling up at Clinton. 

Clinton shook Sterling's hand briefly, wiped his hand on his pants and checked his watch. "Will this take long? I don't mean to be rude, but we're expected in the Hamptons in a few hours and—"

Neal squeezed his shoulder. "Babe, relax. We've got plenty of time. Adam won't mind if we're a little late."

Clinton grunted and Neal hid his satisfaction. They'd decided that Clinton should act impatient, partly to disguise the tension of facing down a murderer, since Clinton didn't do a lot of undercover work, and partly to set-up conflict between the two of them, should they need to resort to arguing later. He was doing fine.

Sterling's muscle, who seemed to be doubling as bartender, poured them all glasses of champagne, and Neal passed Clinton his with a placatory murmur.

"If time is of the essence, why don't I take you fellows to the Hamptons?" suggested Sterling. "We can conduct our business on the high seas. Knox here can have someone collect your bags from your vehicle."

"Sounds good to me," said Clinton promptly. "Nick?"

"We can't," said Neal. They'd taken the precaution of driving to the marina in a Lexus RX from the FBI's confiscated vehicle lock-up, but they hadn't bothered with overnight bags or IDs. "Remember, we promised we'd return Adam's car." Neal made a regretful face at Sterling. "Adam helped us out while the Audi was in the shop. Shame it's not the return journey—you could have saved us from the MTA."

"I thought we were coming back by seaplane," said Clinton, frowning. "I need to be in the city by mid-afternoon tomorrow."

Neal leaned against him a little. "There'll be time. You know I hate to fly."

Sterling pushed harder, but Neal stuck to his story, and eventually Sterling acquiesced. "Just a short jaunt around Lady Liberty, then. There's nothing better than seeing a city from the water."

Knox moved to the controls and started the engine, and Sterling disappeared below deck—presumably to wherever he was keeping the incriminating contracts. Neal peered down the stairs, trying to get a sense of which cabin he was in, then retreated. They were still working to Plan A: sign the contract and get out.

As they cleared the marina and the clanging of rigging against masts was drowned out by the waves and other boats and the cries of seabirds, Neal sipped his champagne and went to stand at the railing next to Clinton, where he was watching gulls coast the warm breeze. In the background Battery Park slipped past. So far, so good. It was a gorgeous afternoon, there were definitely worse places to be, and if Sterling was only taking them to Liberty Island, they should stay in range for Peter and Diana's audio surveillance most of the time.

"Ladies!" Sterling had emerged from below deck while their backs were turned and was welcoming the women from the front of the boat. Neal exchanged glances with Clinton and turned slowly to see Sterling present each of the women with a glass of champagne, in an exaggerated display of old-world chivalry. "Natasha, Lilia—meet Nick and Clive."

"A pleasure." Neal raised his glass and did his best to look politely uninterested. Up close, the women were gorgeous and almost nude, and this was undoubtedly a test of his and Clinton's gay credentials. Neal smiled at them. "How do you know our host?"

The women smiled back and shrugged.

"They don't speak American," said Sterling. "But they sure are easy on the eye, don't you think?"

"Beautiful," said Clinton, neutrally.

Lilia looked him up and down with a private smile, and Clinton blushed. Neal really couldn't blame him. He put his hand on the small of Clinton's back to get his attention, and they moved away slightly, leaving Sterling to fuss over the women.

"How do you think it's going?" murmured Clinton.

"I don't know. He's suspicious." Neal glanced toward Sterling, who watching them with a genial expression that Neal didn't trust for a second. Sterling was spooked for some reason and looking for holes in their cover; any behavior that deviated from their story was suspect, and it was too late and too complicated to introduce the concept of bisexuality. It was galling to think the man might not buy Neal and Clinton's very real relationship, but Neal put that aside. The longer they gave Sterling to doubt, the stronger his doubts would grow, but a dramatic display of affection now would just seem forced. "I think it's time we moved things along."

Clinton nodded. "Do it."

Neal clapped his hands together and went over to Sterling. "So, Captain, do we have a deal?"

Sterling's eyes narrowed, and Neal kicked himself. He'd meant "Captain" as a joking reference to Sterling's cap and outfit, but if the man were at all aware of his FBI nickname, he might think it was a slip.

Sterling picked up the champagne bottle and came over to refresh their glasses. "I'm afraid there's a couple in Virginia who have a prior claim on the land," he said, smoothly regretful. "They called me this afternoon, just before we set off. I hope we can do business in the future."

Dammit. Their cover might not be completely blown, but it was creaking. Peter and Diana might be getting ready to come to the rescue, but things hadn't turned ugly yet and Neal didn't want to give the activation phrase: he and Clinton might still be able to salvage the operation and prove how well they worked together. He caught Clinton's eye, and Clinton nodded and pulled his glass away before Sterling could top it up.

"A prior claim?" Clinton turned on Neal. "Dammit, Nick, why are you wasting my time on another one of your flaky back-room business deals? I work hard. I'd like to spend my weekends having fun with friends instead of running around after your—"

"Hey, I did it for you," said Neal, holding up his hands and keeping his voice low as if he were embarrassed to be fighting in public. "I was trying to make you happy. Now I'm starting to wonder why I bothered." He emptied his champagne glass over the railing, set it on the table and stormed below deck before Sterling could stop him, into the dim cabin on the starboard side, which he quickly started searching for Sterling's paperwork.


	62. Chapter 62

Clinton took a deep breath and ran his hand over his head as if he were getting a grip on his temper. Pretending to fight with Neal had been easier than he'd thought—the anger hadn't hit home, it was just work. But Neal's being out of sight made Clinton worry; he couldn't protect him if he couldn't see him. He swallowed his concerns and concentrated on keeping Sterling occupied. "Sorry about that," he said with a grimace. "Nick can be—less than reliable. I love him, but he's been driving me crazy with the endless wedding arrangements and now this." 

Sterling took a step back, apparently evenly torn between keeping an eye on Neal, grilling Clinton for information and avoiding getting involved in Clive and Nick's relationship drama. 

Clinton refused to let him escape. "You ever get married?"

"Not since the eighties," said Sterling, gesturing with his pipe.

"Simpler times." 

"Apparently so." Sterling turned to the women and waved them towards the front of the boat. "How did you and Nick meet? Have you known each other long?" he asked Clinton.

The women left as Clinton filled him in. Then Sterling excused himself and went up to the bridge to talk to Knox. 

Clinton glanced around. Sterling had said they were going to loop around the Statue of Liberty, but they must have taken a wrong turn. They were passing Governor's Island and heading toward the Narrows. Clinton considered going in search of Neal, but they'd agreed earlier that if Neal had to search the cabin, Clinton's job was to watch the others, so he followed Sterling up, staying out of sight and straining his ears to hear the conversation between Sterling and Knox. Sterling was telling Knox to watch Clinton, "While I go down and deal with Nicholas." 

So the tide of goodwill had turned. There was a small flare-gun on the wall, and on impulse, Clinton unhooked it and slipped it into his waistband, covering it loosely with his shirt. Then he drew his service weapon from his ankle holster, checked the safety and put it in his pocket.

Clinton retreated back to the deck, intending to warn Neal, but before Sterling could make his move, Neal emerged from below deck and came over to him. Clinton was so relieved to see him, he pulled him close and kissed him, surveillance audio be damned. 

"Mmm, I guess we've made up, then," said Neal with a grin.

"Sterling's onto us." Clinton tightened his hold briefly and then let go. "He was talking about dealing with you. Did you get the evidence?"

"Ah, Nicholas, you've rejoined us," said Sterling, coming towards them. He'd lost the pipe and the hat, and his air of vague good-humor was gone too. 

"Yeah, sorry about that," said Neal, looking sheepish. "I'm—" He circled his hand in the air near his head. "I've got a lot on my plate. And I was disappointed about the deal. I was counting on that."

"You know, Nick, perhaps there's something you can clear up for me," said Sterling, coming over to them. "Amanda at the Peacock Club told me you said Richard Phillips tipped you off about my investment opportunity. I wonder if you know how he came by that information."

Neal leaned lazily back against the railing and looked thoughtful. "You know, now I come to think of it, he didn't say."

"Well, why don't you call him and find out?" said Sterling, with a smile that looked more like a snarl.

"Sure," said Neal. He took out his phone. 

"On speakerphone," said Sterling.

Clinton hoped like hell Diana and Peter were paying attention to the audio surveillance. 

Neal dialed, but before he could speak, Peter's voice came across loud and clear. "Neal, we're not getting any audio. Where are you? Is everything okay?"

"Who is this?" said Sterling into the phone.

There was a pause. "Nick? Are you there?" said Peter carefully.

Sterling snatched the phone from Neal's hands and hung up, checking the display as he did and then flinging it overboard. "Who's Peter Burke? Who are you working for?"

He didn't wait for answers. He took two steps back and pulled a gun, and then everything moved into disjointed slow motion: Clinton drew his ankle gun from his pocket, but Knox appeared behind him, out of nowhere, disarmed him with a bruising blow to the elbow and wrenched his arms back to zip-tie his wrists. Sterling demanded again to know who they were working for, but refused to believe them when Clinton said they were FBI, apparently convinced they'd been sent after him by an angry mark. Clinton caught Neal's gaze, piercing blue, and knew he was going to jump overboard, that if they both had their hands tied behind their backs, they were screwed, they had to go _now_. 

He shouted at Sterling to draw his attention and Neal managed to trip Knox, sending him sprawling, and then Neal was hauling Clinton over the railing, port side, and the glossy green waves zoomed closer, bullets whizzing past and pocking the water.

In the few seconds before impact, Clinton managed to twist midair so he broke the waves with his shoulder instead of his face. He stubbornly held his breath despite the impact and the rush of cold, bubbles everywhere, but lost it as he tried to find which way was up. He surfaced, gasping and choking, and looked around for Neal. Nothing. Just the sputter of more bullets. Clinton went down again, this time more or less deliberately, and swam as best he could, kicking off his shoes and trying to get some distance from the yacht.

The second time he surfaced, Neal was calling his name. "Here," he shouted, around a mouthful of salt water. "Neal?"

And then Neal was there, cutting the zip-ties with a knife, and pulling him further from the yacht. "We have to signal to Peter," Neal said, breathlessly. "So much for testing the water."

Clinton almost laughed—'testing the water' had been their activation phrase, the signal for Peter and Diana to move in. He yanked the flare-gun from his waistband, where it had miraculously gone unnoticed by Knox. Water poured out of the barrel, but Clinton had faith. He drained it, raised it and pulled the trigger. There was a pop, Neal ducked under the water, and a flare went sailing up and up.

Sterling had stopped shooting and the yacht was picking up speed, leaving them behind, which was fine by Clinton. Diana and Peter would be on it by now, coordinating with the coast guard. All they had to do was wait.

"Timely possession of a flare-gun," said Neal, treading water and looking up at the light hanging in the sky. "You know, babe, this is kind of romantic."

That did make Clinton laugh. "You're crazy."

"Making the best of a bad situation," said Neal. "I don't think we're going to be getting commendations for this one."

"We'll be fine," Clinton told him. "Trust me." He spotted a lifesaver floating in the water twenty or thirty feet away. "Where did that come from?"

"Lilia and Natasha," said Neal, as they swam toward it. "Angels from heaven."

"Should I be jealous, Nick?" Clinton wondered out loud.

Neal stopped swimming and looked at him with a warmth that belied the temperature of the water. "No, Clive. No, you should not."


	63. Chapter 63

The EMT finished checking Neal over and let him go. "You're fine." 

"Told you." Neal's clothes were only wet by now, rather than sodden, but his shoes were ruined and his hair was thick with drying salt. He needed a shower and a change of clothes, but first he needed to see Clinton and debrief with Peter and Diana. Although he was warming up fast, he pulled a standard issue gray blanket around his shoulders and went to the next ambulance, where a baby-faced EMT Neal recognized from previous busts gone awry was making Clinton hold an icepack to his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" said Neal, going cold. "Were you hit?" All those bullets—maybe one had found its mark after all. But there would have been blood. Neal would have noticed, even in all the chaos.

"I'm fine," said Clinton. "It's nothing." He sounded calm and more determined to avoid a fuss than anything else, so Neal believed he was okay, but he also knew EMTs didn't hand out icepacks for no reason. 

"Tell me, Clive."

"Really, I'm fine." Clinton beckoned him closer and took his hand, his grip warm and reassuring.

Neal dropped a kiss on his temple, salt rough against his lips, and then raised his eyebrows at the EMT. "Tammy, right?"

She nodded. "He hit the waves pretty hard. No broken bones, but there's some bruising. He'll survive."

Neal thanked her with a smile, but Clinton twisted around to frown and say, "What happened to doctor–patient confidentiality?"

"I'm not a doctor," she said with a shrug and a wry smile.

"The Coastguard caught Sterling," said Diana from behind them. "No papers."

"Tell me you have something," said Peter.

Clinton looked at Neal, and Neal handed him the blanket he was wearing and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Really?" said Diana, to no one in particular, but she changed her tune when she saw what was underneath. Neal had wrapped the papers in saran wrap from the _Four Winds_ galley and bound them to his chest. Despite the saran wrap, they were a bit damp, so he peeled them off carefully and passed them over.

Peter took them. "This is it?"

"He didn't sign it," said Neal regretfully. "But there's always the attempted murder charge."

"We'll figure it out." Peter turned the packet of papers over, examining the damage. "Good work, you two."

"What happened with the audio?" asked Clinton.

"Sterling had a jammer onboard," said Diana. "It was blocking a range of frequencies, including ours."

"For the crook who thinks ahead." Neal leaned against the side of the ambulance, near Clinton. "The FBI owes me a new phone."

"Of course it does," said Peter dryly. With one thing and another, it was a common complaint. 

Clinton checked his pockets and pulled out a dead lump of plastic. "Me too."

"Fill out a requisition form when you get to the office. Oh, and Neal?" Peter produced the anklet and held it up. 

"Yeah," said Neal. "About that. Can Clinton put it on later? We're going to a party in mid-town tonight."

"That okay with you?" Peter asked Clinton.

Clinton nodded and took it off him. "Thanks, Peter."

"I'll be good," said Neal. 

Peter gave him an affectionate smile, proving there were no hard feelings about Neal's misbehavior on Thursday. "I know you will."

Clinton passed the icepack back to Tammy, insisting he was okay now, and Neal promised her he'd take care of him. The two of them caught a ride to the office for new phones on their way home to change, and while Clinton synched his with his computer, Neal saved half a dozen numbers from memory and set up his speed dials, texted Mozzie and June to give them the new number and prowled around the empty Kidnapping and Missing Persons office, looking at the framed photos and desk clutter. When he'd completed a circuit of the floor, he amused himself by taking a few photos of Clinton.

"Neal, what are you doing?" asked Clinton, looking up and catching him in the act. He'd put an old newspaper on his chair to protect it before sitting down, and it was sticking out from underneath him, his clothes were a mess and he was barefoot, but he still looked good.

"Photography," said Neal, perching on the very edge of his desk, careful not to disturb anything. "Clive."

Clinton shook his head. "You couldn't wait until I clean myself up?"

"Nope." Neal leaned in and lowered his voice. "Want to make out?"

Clinton breathed a laugh. "Yeah, but not here. Come on, I'm done. Let's go and find a shower."


	64. Chapter 64

In the end, due to time constraints and the locations of their respective wardrobes, they split up and went to their own places to shower and change for the party. They met at Clinton's and got a cab to mid-town together. On the old wooden stairs up to Aaron's loft, Clinton gave Neal a sideways look. "I think I recognize that shirt."

"You should," said Neal. "I gave it to you on our fake date. You still haven't claimed it."

"Later," said Clinton, but there was no one around and he couldn't resist the chance to back Neal against the wall and kiss him. Neal smelled faintly of soap and aftershave, and his mouth opened easily under Clinton's, welcoming him in. Clinton let his eyes fall shut, barely aware of their surroundings, everything dropping away but the two of them. When Neal hooked his fingers over Clinton's waistband and tugged him even closer, for a wild moment Clinton actually considered doing it here—finding an out-of-the-way corner and claiming the shirt and maybe Neal's pants too, reassuring himself that they really had both escaped from Sterling unscathed, a few bruises notwithstanding—but the sounds of the street door and laughing voices echoed up the stairs. 

Neal splayed his hand on Clinton's chest and pushed him away slightly. His fingers were hot through Clinton's shirt, his dark eyes full of humor and promise. "Later."

"Neal, I—" But the irregular thumps of footsteps were getting louder. Clinton shook off desire and romance and forced himself into a social frame of mind. There would be time for declarations when they were properly alone. "Come on."

The apartment door was propped open with a six pack of beer, and walking in, Clinton couldn't help seeing the party through Neal's eyes: the carnival atmosphere, with color everywhere, from the disco ball that had no doubt been Sal's contribution to the travel posters taped to every available patch of wall. Club music thumping through the stereo. And then there were the people, mostly guys—standing and leaning, sprawled on the couches, talking animatedly, teasing each other. Clinton couldn't see anyone in full drag, but a few people wore dresses or skirts, including two of the guys from Darren and Sal's Ultimate team, both of whom Clinton was pretty sure were straight. 

Clinton had only really known Aaron, Darren and Sal for four or five months, but he'd moved in similar circles for years and this was a familiar scene. A couple of friends by the stereo saw him and waved, and he waved back. He'd talk to them later, introduce Neal. Drinks first, and finding Aaron.

If Neal was uncomfortable or overwhelmed by the hubbub, he was doing a good job of hiding it. He seemed casual and relaxed, curious but in moderation, looking around casually, making assessments. 

Clinton touched his arm. "Okay?"

"Sure. Lead on, Macduff."

Clinton laughed and put his hand lightly on the small of Neal's back, guiding him through the crowded room toward the kitchen table. 

They walked past some guys arguing about politics, and then a cluster of people, probably more Ultimate players, who were tossing a basketball between them and recasting Star Trek with Muppets. "You cannot replace Uhura with Miss Piggy," said a woman with short dark hair. "That's so wrong."

"Hey, none of them are perfect fits, and you have to admit there's a serious shortage of female Muppets," said the guy next to her. "Would you chill?"

"The Count has got to be Spock," said someone else. "You know, the Count from Sesame Street."

Neal grinned at Clinton. "It's true."

"Maybe, but what about—" Clinton winced as a hand gripped his bruised shoulder.

"Hey, Clinton, how you been?" It was Finn, a high school teacher Clinton had dated a few times, some years earlier. They weren't friends, exactly, but they were friendly. "Did you get season tickets to the symphony?"

"Not this year," said Clinton, over the music. "Finn, this is Neal. My boyfriend."

"Hi," said Neal. "Pleased to meet you."

"Hello." Finn raised his eyebrows at Clinton. "I thought you and Aaron were—"

"Not anymore. Listen, we'll see you later, okay?" Clinton took a step back, rolling his shoulder as subtly as he could, testing the ache.

"Shoulder giving you trouble, Clive?" said Neal in his ear. "I could kiss it better."

"It's fine. Just a little sore." Clinton grinned at him. "You're not going to drop the Clive thing, are you?"

Neal shrugged and grinned back, his eyes teasing.

"Well, just do me a favor and don't tell—"

"Clinton, man, what happened to your shoulder?" It was Aaron, wearing a fluorescent yellow vest. He had a beer in one hand, and Clinton got the strong impression it wasn't his first. 

"Nothing," said Clinton. "I fell over and banged it. No big deal." In the corner of his eye, he saw Neal open his mouth, maybe to explain about this afternoon, but Clinton much preferred to keep his work separate from his social life, so he changed the subject. "What's with the safety vest?"

"It's my party," said Aaron. "Gotta make sure people can find me." He narrowed his eyes at Clinton. "Fell over, huh?"

"Yeah." Clinton grimaced ruefully, but refused to elaborate.

Aaron rolled his eyes and turned to Neal. "You must be Neal. So you do exist. You should be taking better care of him."

"Aaron, right?" They sized each other up, and Clinton had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from dragging Neal away. Aaron was drunk and in a weird mood. On the other hand, Neal seemed to have opted for coolly polite, so maybe they'd be all right. Maybe. 

Aaron's smile was more amused than friendly. "Have to say, you're not what I pictured."

"Aaron—" Clinton interrupted, before he could start going on about tattoos and three-piece accountants suits, but neither Aaron nor Neal seemed to hear him.

"You know, you put a lot of pressure on him," said Neal mildly, standing his ground. 

"Well, that's what you're supposed to do," drawled Aaron. "Apply pressure to fresh wounds."

Clinton shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, come on. Guys! Cut it out."

He tried to pull Neal away, but Neal wasn't budging, so Clinton looked around for someone who could neutralize Aaron's sudden attack of hostility. Sal was by the kitchen table, talking to a couple Clinton didn't know. Clinton managed to catch his eye.

"Really I should thank you," Neal was saying. "If you hadn't pushed so hard, we never would have had our first date."

Aaron pointed. "That's the one where you walked out after half an hour?"

Clinton didn't want to make a scene, but he was going to put an end to this, one way or another. Thankfully, Sal arrived in time to overhear Aaron's last remark and saved him the trouble. "Aaron, I don't care if it's your party—stop being a bitch." Sal turned to Neal and dismissed Aaron with a wave of his hand. "Ignore him, he's freaking out about leaving town, and he's drunk. I'm Sal."

"Sal, this is Neal," said Clinton, redundantly.

"Come on," said Sal, "I'll get you a drink while Clinton smacks Aaron around until he's ready to apologize."

"I could use a drink. Thanks." Neal touched Clinton's arm, checking in, and Clinton nodded, feeling bad he hadn't handled the whole thing better. But Neal seemed fine.

"Be gentle with him," Clinton told Sal. "He's new to all this."

Sal gave him a Scouts' salute, and he and Neal disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving Clinton to glare at Aaron. 

"What was that about? Are you mad at me?"

"No," said Aaron. He drank from his beer bottle. "I just like you, and I want to make sure he's worthy." Clinton sent him a skeptical look, and he sighed. "And Sal's right—I'm freaking out about Portland."

Clinton studied him. "Second thoughts?"

"You kidding? It's my dream job. I'm terrified I'm going to fuck it up."

"Well, don't take it out on Neal. Or me." Clinton renewed his glare, making his point, then he poked Aaron in the shoulder. "You'll be fine, man. I guarantee it."

"Yeah, I'll be great." Aaron took a deep breath and visible shook off his tension, and then he was the Aaron Clinton knew again, laidback and teasing. "So. Neal."

"Yeah." Clinton raised his chin.

"He's cute. Very GQ. And I was all up in his face." He dropped his gaze to his beer bottle. "Guess I do owe him an apology. Sorry." 

"Okay." Clinton wasn't going to make a big deal about it, now that the tension had passed. This was Aaron's leaving party, and they might not see each other again. He commented on the travel posters instead, and they talked about the party, Darren and Sal's decision not to find a new roommate, and Aaron's new job, and then the conversation circled back around to Neal again.

Aaron was fully himself again now, relaxed and smiling. "You said he's new to all this. What, he's never been with a guy before?"

"I'm making up for lost time," said Neal, appearing at their side. He was wearing eyeliner—a new look for him that made Clinton's gut twist with desire—and his tone was light, but when he looked at Clinton, his eyes were hard. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"I need a glass of water anyway, since I'm obnoxiously drunk," said Aaron. "Sorry about that, by the way."

Neal nodded, accepting the apology, and Aaron wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.

As soon as he'd gone, Clinton moved closer to Neal. "Hey, what's wrong?"


	65. Chapter 65

The party had a lot of potential, despite the run-in with Aaron. There was a friendly, relaxed vibe, Clinton navigated the room confidently and seemed to know half the people there, and it was novel to be in a social setting where their being together wouldn't raise eyebrows or draw attention beyond a few admiring glances. Neal didn't usually mind being noticed, but after their afternoon with Sterling, he welcomed the opportunity to lower his guard. 

Even the exchange with Aaron was interesting its way. This was Clinton's ex—tall, fit and opinionated, in a dorky Dayglo vest that practically glowed against his dark skin. He'd come on strong, but the guy obviously cared about Clinton, and Neal couldn't fault him for that. And he couldn't say _he_ wouldn't be equally prickly in Aaron's position.

Still, Neal didn't want to fight with a stranger, and it was a relief when Sal offered him an escape route. "What was that about?" he asked, as they walked away.

"Don't take it personally," said Sal. "Really. Beer or wine?"

Neal accepted the change of subject and a glass of wine, and Sal introduced him to a few people, including his boyfriend Darren, who was solid and likeable, and whose t-shirt and jeans, pale skin and lack of other adornment were all in contrast to Sal, who had clearly made an effort, in a glittery, theatrical kind of way. Neal was pretty sure the mirror ball spinning in the center of the room was down to Sal's influence. 

Another contrast was that Darren seemed slightly cautious around Neal, perhaps out of loyalty to Aaron, whereas Sal appeared to have no such reservations. But when Neal made a joke about being underdressed for the occasion, they both laughed and reassured him, and then mocked each other good-naturedly, their mutual affection obvious. Neal liked them a lot.

From a doorway nearby, a striking person of indeterminate sex called to Sal for help with their dress, and Neal tagged along, since it didn't seem a particularly private request and Darren was going to talk to the Star Trek Muppet crowd. 

The doorway led to Darren and Sal's bedroom, which—aside from the bed—was dominated by a large vanity piled with makeup, jewelry and text books. While Sal unsnagged the person's zipper, Neal picked up the top book, _Strategy in the Contemporary World: An Introduction to Strategic Studies._ "Light reading?"

Sal grimaced. "I'm writing a dissertation."

"On?"

"The interplay between domestic politics and American foreign policy," said Sal. "Basically, it's about why we go to war. Don't get me started." He picked an eyeliner pencil out of the clutter and handed it to Neal like a dare. "Here, give Clinton a thrill."

Neal grinned and accepted the challenge. It wasn't difficult; decades of sketching and painting had given him a steady hand. The person in the dress finished arranging their hair and went out into the wider party.

Sal sat on the end of the bed, watching Neal. "So, no anklet tonight?"

"What?" Neal glanced at him in the mirror. Sal couldn't mean what it sounded like, so—what, then? But there was sympathy and knowing on Sal's face, and it hit home with a jolt. That was exactly what Sal meant. 

Suddenly Aaron's scorn made a whole lot more sense. _You're not what I pictured._ And Darren's reserve, too. Neal's defenses slipped into place automatically, subtle and tight. "Clinton told you."

Sal gave him a half smile. "He wanted to bring you to dinner on Thursday, but he said it was outside your perimeter. It's no big deal. Everyone's got something, you know?"

Neal stared blindly into the mirror, trying not to overreact. He knew Clinton cared about him and wanted him, he knew that. Clinton had been open about their relationship at work, he'd introduced Neal as his boyfriend. But apparently that only went so far; it didn't extend to wanting Neal to be part of his social life. Clinton could have found some other excuse for Neal's absence on Thursday, but he'd chosen to tell his friends the unvarnished truth, as if he still thought of Neal as a criminal, first and foremost. As if he still disapproved of him, even now. And that had been Thursday night, even before he knew about Myers and Tilki. What was more, when Neal had told him about that transgression, Clinton hadn't been shocked by the information; he'd expected Neal to break the law, almost seemed to welcome it. What if he was easy-going because none of it really mattered to him? 

It was incredible how much the possibility hurt. Neal carefully put the makeup pencil down on the text book and forced a smile. "Would you excuse me?"

He didn't hear Sal's reply, too busy schooling himself to stay calm and pretend nothing was wrong. He needed to talk to Clinton. He found him where he'd left him, still hanging out with his respectable ex. Neal joined them smoothly, barely aware of Aaron now. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked Clinton.

And then they were alone, and Clinton was right there. Fifteen minutes ago he'd been Neal's—his boyfriend, his lover. They'd been partners. Now Neal wasn't sure what they were.

"Hey, what's wrong?" said Clinton, moving closer, and Neal had to work not to step back.

"You told your friends about my parole. About the anklet." The words tasted sour.

Clinton looked around. "Did someone give you a hard time about it?"

Neal waited until Clinton's focus was back on him. "Why did you tell them?"

"It's the truth," said Clinton, as if Neal didn't know that. As if it made the slightest bit of difference. 

Anger flared. "Right," said Neal, low and fast. "You're a champion of full disclosure. That's probably why you're in such a hurry to explain to Aaron that you hurt your shoulder jumping off a yacht in a hail of gunfire this afternoon."

"That's not the same. But this—I didn't think you'd care." Clinton sounded genuinely confused, and that just made Neal's anger burn brighter.

He glanced sideways and saw a guy in a purple shirt watching them curiously, pretending he wasn't. They were in the heart of Clinton's social circle. If they were going to fight, Neal wanted to do it in private, and in the meantime, he didn't have the self-control to put his hurt on hold and pretend everything was okay. "Listen, I'm going to get out of here. You stay, have fun with your friends. I'll see you later."

"Neal, don't." Clinton caught his arm and pulled him close. "I'm sorry."

"I really don't want to talk about this here." Neal's voice came out steadier than he expected. He pulled free, no longer caring who was watching or what they could see, and left quickly. Clinton would try to follow, but Neal was a master of the clean getaway. He needed to think, and he couldn't do that, not properly, until he'd gotten a grip on his feeling of betrayal, however irrational, and his temper.


	66. Chapter 66

When Clinton reached the street, there was no sign of Neal. Either he'd found a cab in the last few seconds or he was hiding. Clinton looked around, checking nearby doorways and the Duane Reade under Aaron's apartment. Nothing. 

It wasn't until he gave up the search that he realized not only was Neal out of his anklet, but Clinton didn't have his new phone number. That had been an oversight, surely, and not part of a wider scheme for Neal to disappear, free and untraceable, into the Manhattan night. Doubts rose, but Clinton ignored them. Neal's anger hadn't been a con—he was genuinely upset that Clinton had told Aaron and the roommates about his parole.

The thing was, Neal's criminal past was so much a part of his persona at work that it hadn't even occurred to Clinton he might want to keep it quiet. In retrospect, that had been naïve. Clinton of all people understood the desire to keep work and private life separate—a division that Neal had disrupted over and over with their new relationship, through no fault of his own. And given the stigma attached to Neal's circumstances, it was perfectly understandable for Neal to want to distance himself from them sometimes. And yet, he was Neal Caffrey; he was used to handling people, charming them. Maybe there was more to it than Clinton could see. The only way he'd find out was by talking to Neal.

More importantly right now, Neal was out there somewhere, his feelings hurt by Clinton's thoughtlessness. Clinton had to find him, apologize and repair the damage he'd done. 

He went back upstairs and said goodbye to Aaron and the guys. Sal said he was sorry, but Clinton shook his head. "It's my fault. Don't worry about it." And then he was back on the street, looking both ways and wondering: Where was Neal? Where would he go?

Clinton tried his own place first. It was a long shot, but Neal had said he'd see him later. The apartment was dark and empty, the bed still a mess from that morning. The stained, rumpled sheets brought a lump to Clinton's throat, and he stared down at them while he pulled himself together. Everything would be okay—he just needed to find Neal.

He grabbed the anklet and tossed it into the glove compartment of his car, then drove toward June's. It was still pretty early, the sky pale and colorless with dusk, and there was a lot of traffic. It took a while to traverse the busy streets, and that gave him too much time to worry and second-guess Neal and himself. 

June answered his knock, and her welcome was gracious but not warm. "Agent Jones. If you're looking for Neal, he's not home."

Clinton wanted to ask if he could see for himself, but he had a feeling June would say no, so he changed tack. "I'm actually looking for Mozzie. May I come in?"

"Certainly." June arched a curious eyebrow and opened the door wider.

Mozzie was in the parlor, halfway through a game of Parcheesi and a large glass of something frothy and probably alcoholic. He looked up as June entered. "It's your turn, and I warn you now, madam, I have no intention of admitting defeat, so— Suit."

"Mozzie." Clinton took the seat next to him without waiting to be invited. "I need your help. I don't know where Neal is, and I need to find him."

"Why should I help you?" Mozzie studied him through the thick lenses of his glasses. 

"Because you care about him." Clinton weighed up how much to say, knowing Mozzie didn't trust him for a second. "I'm not trying to catch him out. I'm here because I screwed up, and I need to apologize—that's all. Can you help me?"

"I can take a message," said Mozzie. From his manner, Clinton was fairly sure Neal wasn't upstairs; June might have a good poker face, but Mozzie was relatively easy to read.

"Why don't you call him?" suggested June, who was considering the Parcheesi board, but also obviously and shamelessly listening in. 

"He forgot to give me his new phone number this afternoon," said Clinton. "And before you ask, no, it can't wait till tomorrow—Neal's out of his anklet, and if I don't find him by midnight, I'll have to tell Peter."

"Does Neal know that?" asked June.

Clinton met her shrewd gaze. "He does, but we had a misunderstanding and I don't think it's the first thing on his mind right now."

"Are you worried about Neal or are you worried about yourself?" asked June.

Clinton spread his hands. "I need to make sure he's okay. Please."

Mozzie was watching him closely, and at Clinton's "please", he sighed and took out his phone. "Far be it from me to thwart the course of true love." 

Clinton's heart skipped a beat at that, but he didn't know if Neal had confided in Mozzie or if it were just one of the little guy's flowery figures of speech, and if Clinton was going to ask anyone, he'd ask Neal when he found him. It was time they really talked.

Mozzie tapped the screen of his phone. "I'll call him on your behalf."

"On speaker?" said Clinton.

Mozzie frowned. "No. Unlike you government drones, I happen to respect his privacy." He gestured with both hands. "But I also know Neal, and when he's upset, he has a tendency to forget the practicalities, which in this case could lead to unwelcome complications. I'll call him."

Clinton nodded his agreement. He picked up one of the spare Parcheesi dice and turned it between his fingers, letting the edges dig into his fingertips while Mozzie made the call.

"Straight to voice mail." Mozzie hung up without leaving a message. 

Clinton blew out a breath and tried again to think where Neal might be. He needed a plan. He was about to ask Mozzie and June's advice when June turned to Mozzie and said, "He might be more receptive to a text message."

"That could work." Mozzie typed something into his phone. Clinton leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the message before he sent it: _SOS. Haversham._

June and Mozzie sipped their drinks as they waited for a response, and June took her turn at the game. Finally, when Clinton's patience was stretched and threadbare, Mozzie's phone rang. Clinton reached for it, but Mozzie stopped him with a gesture and picked it up. "Neal?" 

There was a faint burst of noise from the phone, and Mozzie winced and held it further from his ear. "I can hardly hear you. Where are you?"

Clinton mouthed, "Speaker!" and Mozzie rolled his eyes and set the phone on the table, switching it to speaker as he did so, but it was too late. Nearly drowned out by the jangly clattery background noise, Neal said, "—not in the mood, Moz," and the call cut off.

"What was that cacophony?" said Mozzie, distracted. "Has he taken up tap dancing or run away to join a band of feral carpenters?"

Clinton tossed the die onto the table, rolling a five, and stood up, relieved and breathing easy for the first time in an hour. "I know where he is. Mozzie, thank you. I owe you one."

Mozzie blinked rapidly, as if he didn't know what to do with that, but Clinton didn't have time to discuss the parameters of any future payment. He nodded to June and hurried toward the door. 

"Agent Jones," June called after him, and when he looked back, she favored him with a smile. "Good luck."


	67. Chapter 67

Neal wasn't in the Frames where White Collar held their Friday night bowling practice or in the next two bowling alleys Clinton tried, but Clinton had trained with the best and he didn't give up easily. He finally found him in the Lucky Strike on 42nd, the site of Neal's first bowling lesson. Neal had managed to snag the end lane, farthest from the door, and he was alone, sending ball after ball speeding toward the pins, apparently oblivious to the Saturday night bustle, families and groups of friends. From a distance, he looked focused, almost robotic, and Clinton's relief at finding him was tempered with guilt.

Clinton rented shoes and put them on, then threaded his way through the crowded alley to stand at the end of Neal's lane, letting Neal finish his turn before he interrupted. Neal's technique had definitely improved. He turned away from bowling a strike and saw Clinton there. 

"I'm sorry," said Clinton. "I shouldn't have told them. I wasn't thinking. Are you okay?"

"I'm working on my spin." Neal picked up a ball as if he were going to keep practicing. It was like talking to a machine, except that Clinton had never felt this way about a machine.

He stepped into Neal's path. "I'll bet you."

"What?" Neal frowned. He was still wearing eyeliner.

"Bowling." Clinton tilted his chin in challenge. "If I win, you forgive me."

A spark of life appeared in Neal's eyes, maybe anger, but it was still better than nothing. "What if I win?"

"Then you never have to talk to me again. Rice said I can make the secondment permanent."

Clinton expected Neal to argue, to say that was too much, but Neal just shrugged. "Bring it."

And damn, that hurt—that Neal was willing to throw away everything they had over one mistake. Clinton made his first roll ferociously, forgetting until he was actually swinging the heavy ball that he'd injured his shoulder that afternoon. The sore muscles caught him off-guard, and the ball went straight into the gutter.

Clinton recovered on his next go, playing more carefully and compensating for the pain, but Neal seemed to be possessed by an evil bowling genius. The game progressed and by the sixth frame, his score was nearly double Clinton's. He was going to win. 

He turned away from another strike, his face set and tired-looking, and Clinton couldn't stand it anymore. "Neal, wait." 

Neal stopped in his tracks and raised his eyebrows, and Clinton's heart went out to him. Even like this, furious, hurt and unwilling to talk, he was still Neal, and Clinton loved him and wanted him. He needed to bridge the distance that had opened up between them.

Clinton came forward. "Why are you so mad? Explain it to me."

"You stole my first impression," said Neal, as if the accusation were waiting to burst out. He looked away, his shoulders hunching slightly. "Seems like you don't care what they think of me."

"No, I don't," said Clinton honestly. 

"Well, I do."

"Why?" Clinton touched his arm. "Why them?"

Neal looked incredulous. "Because they're your friends, Clinton. Because—" He shook his head and stepped back. "It doesn't matter."

Clinton followed, determined to get through to him. "Neal, there's a damn sight more to you than your prison record, and those guys are smart enough to know that." Neal looked unconvinced, and Clinton took his arm, trying to get through to him. "So am I. So are you."

Neal sighed and shook his head, anger giving way to misery. "It's not that simple. Mozzie's in trouble again." He leaned into Clinton, just a fraction, and Clinton softened his hold on his arm, wanting desperately to hug him, but unwilling to interrupt now Neal had started talking. "Every time I think I've changed, I'm on track, something happens—"

"Neal," Clinton murmured in his ear. "Mozzie's not in trouble. He was helping me find you. That's what the SOS was."

"He—" Neal pulled away far enough to see his face. "He _helped_ you?"

"Him and June. Because I couldn't find you, and I really needed to tell you that I'm sorry." Clinton met his eye, willing him to believe him. "You're not caught between two worlds, Neal. It's one world, and if something goes wrong, we'll figure it out. I want to help, if you'll let me."

"Clinton—" Neal still looked unhappy.

Clinton swallowed. He could fix this if he could just admit the truth. "Look, on Thursday, on the twenty-second floor, I knew you were hiding something, and I wanted it to be something like that, a forgery or a con." He rubbed his thumb up and down Neal's arm. "I didn't want it to be something about us. I think that's why I told them."

There was a crease between Neal's eyebrows, but he seemed perplexed now, rather than sad. "How did you know there was anything?"

"Because I know you," said Clinton. "Because I'm in love with you."

Neal's eyes widened and then he was kissing Clinton, his hands on Clinton's hips, his mouth soft with wonder, and everything was right again. Clinton pulled him closer, hugging him fiercely and wishing they could stay like this forever. 

"Just—trust me," he said, feeling like he was begging, knowing it was worth it.

"I do," said Neal. "I trust you, and I love you. You're stuck with me now, Clive."


	68. Chapter 68

Neal leaned on Clinton. They weren't kissing anymore, just holding each other, and he still felt a million times lighter. What a difference love—and the assurance of love—could make. Nothing else mattered, at least for now. Slowly the rest of the alley impinged on his awareness, all the sounds he'd been shutting out—the smack and rattle of balls and pins, the music, the people. He turned his head to murmur into Clinton's ear, "First doorways, now bowling alleys," and felt Clinton smile in reply.

Neal stepped sideways, keeping one arm around Clinton's waist, and checked to make sure they hadn't drawn a crowd this time. There were a few curious glances but no one was making a big deal of it. Of them. 

"Okay?" asked Clinton.

"Yeah. You?" Neal felt a pang of remorse. "I can't believe I made you bowl with a bruised shoulder."

"No harm done," said Clinton. "Don't worry about it. I was the one who suggested the bet."

"The bet." Neal would have won and sent Clinton into permanent exile in Kidnapping and Missing Persons if Clinton hadn't stopped him. "I forfeit."

"Seems a shame when you were playing so well, but I should probably quit before I do hurt myself." Clinton tilted his head. "Mutual forfeit?"

"Does that mean we both win or we both lose?" Neal led the way to the bench seats and they sat down to take off their bowling shoes. Neal's were rentals this time, reminders of his stormy departure from the party and the lack of premeditation in his ending up here. "We could retrospectively change the stakes." 

"What to?" Clinton sounded willing to humor him. 

"Well, obviously I still forgive you, but I don't want to sentence you to working for Rice indefinitely." Neal thought for a moment. "How about now that you've successfully taught me bowling, I teach you something."

Clinton looked amused. "Like what? I hate to disappoint, but I don't think I'm ever going to be any good with a paintbrush."

"Ever tried fencing?" Neal grinned. "Then next time I lose my cool, you get to stab me in the chest." His smile faded and he took Clinton's hand, rubbing across his knuckles, feeling warm and loved and sure of himself. "Sorry I ran off like that."

"I'm just glad I found you," said Clinton. He looked at his watch, and Neal knew what he was thinking, so he said it for him.

"The anklet." He hadn't taken that or anything else into account when he'd disappeared from the party. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Ten-thirty." Clinton squeezed his hand. "Come on, let's get out of here."

They had to walk three blocks to Clinton's car, since he hadn't been able to find a parking space any closer to the bowling alley, and when they got there, Neal insisted on driving so Clinton could rest his shoulder. He took them to June's because he wanted Clinton in his bed, and Clinton didn't question it. When Neal parked, Clinton took something from the glove compartment, and they went upstairs, where Neal had a quiet word to Mozzie, suggesting he avail himself of June's other guest room, and then Neal and Clinton were alone. 

Clinton put the anklet on the table, and Neal looked at it, unsettled by echoes of the evening's emotional turmoil. "Can we leave it off?"

"You know it doesn't make any difference to me." Clinton moved toward him. 

"I know."

"Peter said midnight."

"We have an hour," said Neal, and kissed him, not holding anything back, loving the strength of Clinton's hands on him, holding him close and wrinkling his shirt. Neal bit Clinton's lower lip and then broke the kiss, smiling. "You still haven't claimed this shirt."

"I'll take it now." Clinton loosened his hold. His voice was deep and warm. "Give it to me?"

Neal took a half step back and unfastened the buttons, one by one, making a show of it, letting the night air onto his heated skin, while Clinton stood motionless, his gaze dark and intent, his attention absolute—it was incredibly arousing. 

Neal slid the shirt off his shoulders and formally presented it to Clinton, and Clinton cast it aside without looking and ran his hands lightly from Neal's shoulders, over his chest to his belly and around to his back, clearly savoring the moment. 

Neal shivered, anticipation an ache in his belly, his cock. "Oh God, Clinton."

"Fuck me," said Clinton, and Neal kissed him hard, opening wide and letting him take whatever he wanted. But—

"I don't have lube." It was a stupid oversight. "Come on. I'll think of something else." Between them, they pulled Clinton's shirt off, and Neal stroked light fingertips over his bruises, kissed them. Then, overtaken by sudden urgency, he and Clinton stripped and lay down, both hard and eager. Neal was struck anew by the beauty of Clinton's body and, even more, the tenderness in his touch. 

He kissed his way down Clinton's torso and wet a couple of fingers with spit, and while he sucked Clinton off, he fingered him, pushing in carefully until he was snug inside and Clinton was tense with trying not to writhe, cursing and saying Neal's name. Neal drew on everything he'd learned that week and gave the best head he could, loving every moment of it, Clinton laid out before him, taking what he needed. When Clinton pulsed and came, hot and bitter, on his tongue, Neal's heart pounded with vicarious satisfaction. 

Clinton dragged him up the bed, and Neal wiped his fingers on a tissue and went to him willingly, stretching out beside him, aware of his own nakedness, the absence of the tracker. It made his heart beat faster, the blood race in his veins. There was nothing between them, and one day, if Neal's luck held and they made it, it would always be like this. He found Clinton's mouth and kissed him fiercely, laying an honest claim.

Clinton started down Neal's body to reciprocate, but Neal stopped him. He was hungry for release, but he wanted Clinton here in his arms when he came. He wanted to feel the tangle of their legs, the press of Clinton's body. Damn, he should have stocked up on condoms and lube; he would have asked Clinton to fuck him. As it was, he made do with thrusting shallowly against Clinton's hip, and it was enough, it was plenty, because this was Clinton, and being with him was all Neal needed. 

His orgasm, when it came, was bright with pleasure, settling happiness so deep in his chest that half an hour later, when the time came, picking up the anklet was no real burden. Neal brought it back to the bed, and Clinton fastened it, kissed his calf and then his hip, his mouth, and it didn't change anything, not really. Not anything that mattered.


	69. Chapter 69

Clinton's shoulder was stiff and sore when he woke. He was in Neal's bed, lying close enough that they could have been sharing a pillow, though they weren't. Neal's lashes were dark against his cheeks, and there were still traces of makeup around his eyes; his hair fell onto his forehead casting a shadow across his skin in the morning sunlight. His breathing was deep and even. Clinton watched him, feeling warm and content, the pain in his shoulder supremely unimportant compared to this. 

He rolled onto his back and looked up through the skylight. It was Sunday, less than a week since their first real date, but Clinton's life had been broken and re-formed, and while there were still complications and decisions to be made—primarily about Clinton's work situation—Clinton had no doubts about being with Neal. They were partners, bound together. They loved each other. Everything else could be made to accommodate that fact. 

An hour later, after coffee and lazy, sensuous, Sunday morning sex, when Neal was lying with his head on Clinton's chest, Clinton found the most pressing decision had made itself. "I'm going to accept Rice's offer and stay with Kidnapping and Missing Persons," he said, interrupting Neal's increasingly surrealist suggestions for how they could spend the rest of the day. 

"But—" Neal got up on one elbow and frowned down at him. "No, you belong in White Collar. We can talk Peter around."

"We don't have to." Clinton ran his thumb along the stubbled line of Neal's jaw. "I want to transfer. It's the right thing to do. The rules are there for a reason—"

"A stupid reason," said Neal.

"Maybe." Clinton grinned, teasing him. There were some aspects of working for the Bureau that Neal would probably never accept with good grace; he was too used to setting his own rules and then breaking them whenever it suited him. But Clinton had been shaped by his upbringing, the Navy and his loyalty to Peter. And White Collar might be home, but everyone had to leave home sometime. "I can do good work in Kidnapping and Missing Persons, and someone's got to keep the assholes in line."

"I don't see why it has to be you," said Neal, but he was already giving in. "I suppose, if it's what you want—"

"I'm making friends there." Clinton pushed Neal onto his back and pinned him down, bent so their lips were almost brushing. "And it's worth it to be with you."

Neal craned up and kissed him, and their embrace was just turning heated again when Clinton's phone rang. 

"Leave it," said Neal, but Clinton was already getting up, rummaging through the clothes on the floor to find it. 

He half expected it to be work, Murphy's Law at play, but it was Aaron. "Hey, man. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's good. We're good."

"Cool. So, here's the thing—we are all very, very hung-over and we can't face cleaning up yet, so we're going out for brunch. If you and Neal promise to speak only in whispers, you're invited to join us."

"Where?" asked Clinton, hoping he wouldn't have to bring up Neal's radius again, relieved when Aaron named a deli near the park. "Hang on." He relayed the invitation to Neal, who raised his eyebrows and nodded. "We'll see you there," said Clinton, and hung up.

While he thought of it, he dug Neal's phone out of the abandoned pants on the floor and used it to send himself a text, so that he had Neal's number.

Neal was still flat on his back, and he'd thrown his arm over his face. "Oh God," he said with a groan, "I stormed out of their party. They must think I'm a dork."

"And they'll never let you live it down." Clinton sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Neal's arm up so he could kiss him. "Relax, everyone they know is a dork."

Neal breathed a laugh. "Including you?"

"Definitely including me." Clinton pulled him upright. "Come on. I'm hungry. We can come back and do this again this afternoon."

"It's a deal." 

They showered quickly, and Clinton borrowed briefs and a t-shirt from Neal, both of which were snug but passable. They arrived at the deli as the others approached from the other direction. There was a fourth with them, a guy who, when they got closer, Clinton identified as Ron the Branding Consultant. It was pretty obvious he'd spent the night with Aaron. 

Clinton grinned and shook his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise." Ron introduced himself to Neal, and they all went inside and found a table. 

It was a convivial meal, if somewhat subdued until the second round of coffees. Once properly caffeinated, Sal and Aaron both perked up and the usual teasing banter started flying. Neal was bright-eyed and amused, and Clinton sat back and watched him fit in as if he'd known the others for months, not hours. Even Sal hassling him for flouncing out of the party didn't throw him; he just laughed and promised to stay longer next time.

Finally Aaron stretched and said, "I should get home and start cleaning up."

"I haven't got any plans. With the right incentive, I could be persuaded to help out," said Ron, and Aaron leered at him.

Neal glanced at Clinton, clearly entertaining his own thoughts about incentives, but just then, Clinton's phone rang, and this time it was work: Patterson with news of a kidnapping. "It's all hands on deck," she said.

Clinton hung up. "I have to go," he told Neal, feeling bad for the loss of their day off, especially in the face of other couples with their plans.

"So go," said Neal, putting his hand on Clinton's thigh. "Save the world. I'll see you later."

"You know, Neal," said Sal with studied casualness, "we have Ultimate practice in an hour, if you want to come. It's in the park."

Neal blinked. "That's Frisbee, right?"

"Yeah," said Aaron. "Frisbee. Don't do it, man. It'll take over your life."

"One little practice," said Sal. "You make it sound like a cult."

"There's a reason for that," muttered Aaron, and Darren reached over and cuffed him upside the head.

"We'll help with clean-up later," he said. "Shut up."

Neal was still looking at Sal, a bemused expression on his face. "Sure," he said. "Thanks."

"Cool," said Sal.

Clinton squeezed Neal's hand, dropped a twenty on the table to cover his meal and stood up. "Have fun, babe. Try not to get indoctrinated all at once."

Neal looked up at him and winked. "If I get hooked, I'm taking you with me, Clive."

"Yeah, I know," said Clinton with a grin. He said goodbye to the others and went out into the sun, sliding his sunglasses onto his nose as he went to find a cab.


	70. Epilogue

Neal smiled across the white expanse of candlelit table cloth and gleaming silverware. Clinton didn't dress up to go out much these days, but he'd made an effort tonight, including wearing the purple tie Neal had picked out. He looked great, and the gleam in his eye said he appreciated the trouble Neal had gone to, too.

Isabel Wilson was watching them curiously while her husband, Jimmy, inspected the wine list. "So, Neal, CJ didn't say how you two met," she said. 

"CJ, huh?" Neal grinned at Clinton, who kicked him lightly under the table. Neal laughed and turned back to Isabel. "We met through work. I'm a criminal consultant with the FBI." He and Clinton had talked earlier about whether to tell the Wilsons about his background. Clinton said he didn't care either way, he was proud of Neal, and upon meeting Isabel and Jimmy, Neal made a split-second decision not to cover up. He was making good; it was nothing to be ashamed of. And either the admission didn't register with Isabel and Jimmy, or they were too polite to react.

"You work together?" said Jimmy, putting down the list.

"Not anymore," said Clinton. "Neal's in White Collar. I've transferred to Kidnapping and Missing Persons."

"Where he's a rising star," said Neal. 

"I don't know about that." Clinton looked relieved when the waiter chose that moment to come and take their orders. 

When the waiter had gone, Jimmy pointed at Clinton. "Did you have anything to do with the Garber kidnapping on the front of yesterday's _Times_?"

Neal hid a smile. Clinton had been instrumental in locating the warehouse where Zach Garber was being held, but Neal knew he wouldn't take credit for it. And however much Neal wanted to boast on his behalf, he respected Clinton's wishes and let it lie.

"I was on the team," said Clinton vaguely. "How about you guys? Jimmy, when are you going to stop jet-setting all over the world and settle down?" 

"A guy has to make a living," said Jimmy. He and Isabel exchanged complicated glances, and Clinton's teasing tone fell away. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," said Isabel. 

"I just meant it's good to see you, man," Clinton told Jimmy. "It's been too long."

"You just got back from Australia?" Neal asked Jimmy, after a brief lull, and Jimmy started telling stories from his time Down Under, which led to an interesting discussion of the security at opal mines that made Clinton shake his head at Neal in amusement. Their meals arrived, and while they ate, the topic somehow shifted to linguistics. Neal, who'd done his homework, managed to hold up his end of an exchange with Isabel on morphophonology, but only barely. 

She broke off during a run-down of her most recent paper and said, "I think we're boring the boys."

"Not at all," said Clinton, politely and unconvincingly. 

Neal gave him a reassuring smile. Dinner with the ex-fiancée and her husband, the estranged best friend, was bound to be a little stilted, but they were doing fine. 

Isabel took a sip from her wineglass. "Oh my God," she said. "I was just thinking—remember that time you guys rented horses for Halloween?"

"I was a knight," said Jimmy. "Clinton was a cowboy."

"They showed up on my parents' lawn at nine o'clock at night, with bags of candy," Isabel told Neal. She started to laugh. "And they were both sugar-crazy. They couldn't climb back up onto the horses, they were laughing so hard. I had to take the horses back to the stable myself."

"When was this?" Neal asked Clinton. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-five, twenty-six. I don't remember." Clinton was smiling.

Neal propped his chin on his hand and stared raptly at Isabel. "Tell me more."

"Those poor horses." Isabel shook her head.

"Remember when we went scuba diving in Bermuda?" said Jimmy. "That was something."

"It was." Clinton looked nostalgic. 

Neal wiggled a finger between Clinton and Jimmy. "But you two were never—?"

Jimmy snorted. "Not me."

"We didn't even know till a few weeks ago that CJ's gay," said Isabel.

Clinton frowned. "Hey, I told you."

"You said you thought you might be," said Isabel. "And that was while we were breaking up. I didn't know if you meant it. We said a lot of things."

"I'm sorry. It was—" Clinton looked down at his plate for a moment, then raised his chin, glancing from Jimmy to Isabel. "It was a long time ago. I'm bisexual."

"Figured," said Jimmy calmly. "You happy?"

"Yeah." Clinton smiled at Neal, that warm private smile Neal knew so well. "Yeah, I am." _Me too,_ thought Neal. 

"Good," said Jimmy. "You know, you remind me more and more of your dad." He looked at Neal. "Have you met his folks yet?"

"Not yet," said Neal. "We're hoping maybe Christmas, if I can get away."

"They're great," said Isabel. "Really lovely."

Jimmy nodded. "They are, but man, your dad keeps himself to himself, you know? I never knew what was going on with him. You could ask him anything, and he'd be pretty much guaranteed to change the subject."

"He's private," said Clinton. "There's nothing—" He put down his cutlery and reached for his glass, and Neal could see him wanting to divert the conversation, just like Jimmy had said. Neal was one of the few people who knew both sides of Clinton's life, who saw him at work and at play, and that had been more an accident of fate than by design. Clinton took a breath, licked his lips and gave Jimmy a tiny shrug. "What do you want to know?"

Jimmy raised his eyebrows in challenge. "The Garber kidnapping?"

Clinton tilted his head. "I can't talk about it much because it hasn't gone to trial, but yeah. I was on that case."

"Were you there when they found him?" asked Isabel.

Clinton nodded. "There were four agents and a SWAT team. I was one of the agents."

It was a small thing, but for Clinton it was huge—letting his friends catch a glimpse of that side of him. Pride and love welled up in Neal's chest, and although he liked Isabel and Jimmy well enough, for the rest of the meal he had trouble keeping his eyes off Clinton, who kept pushing himself to open up, inch by inch.

After dessert, over coffee, Isabel asked Neal about being a criminal consultant. "You're not a criminologist."

"No, I'm a criminal," said Neal. "Reformed. Paying my dues."

Unexpectedly, her smile widened at that. "I know—I did my homework too. You're a good influence on Clinton, I think."

"I like to think so." Neal watched her put her cup down. This had started out a dinner to meet the ex, but now it felt like a family reunion.

"He used to be—he could be a little judgmental," she said. "I'm glad he found you."

Later, in the car on the way home to Clinton's place, Neal sat in the passenger seat so full of warmth and satisfaction that he thought he might explode from smugness. Clinton was talking about the rest of the weekend—their Ultimate game the following afternoon, lunch with Peter, Elizabeth, Diana and Christie on Sunday—but when he paused, Neal reached across and took his hand. "It was a good evening. I like them."

"They liked you too." Clinton glanced at him. "You got Isabel's seal of approval."

"We should do it again sometime."

"Now that you're an expert bowler, maybe we should challenge them to a game," said Clinton, deadpan.

Neal grinned. "We could do that." He waited while Clinton found a parking space and pulled the key out of the ignition, and then leaned across and kissed him. "I love you, Agent Clive Clinton CJ Jones."

Clinton laughed and touched his cheek. "I love you too, but you know, if I have to list all of your aliases, we'll be here all night."

"There are better places to be," agreed Neal, but he didn't move until Clinton kissed him softly and murmured, "Thank you," the words heavy with emotion. 

"Anytime." Neal wanted to get closer, but they were essentially in public, in a car ill-designed for making out. "Clive, you see this shirt I'm wearing?" he said. "It's yours. Come inside and let me give it to you."

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read along, who kudosed and commented and encouraged me. THANK YOU! Most of all, I need to pledge my undying gratitude to mergatrude, whose awesomeness and generosity cannot be textually rendered. She inspired, encouraged, bullied and coddled me through this, right to the end. *ALL THE HEARTS*


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